


Celemîr

by M_Mortimer



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-27 19:06:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 46,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18198161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Mortimer/pseuds/M_Mortimer
Summary: Daughter of the fires that made the One Ring, she is tied to it's fate and to Sauron; a bond she must learn to both control, and accept.





	1. Chapter 1

Born of a single feather, she was found beneath the branches of an oak tree, crying and kicking around because she was too small to move. Her skin was hot to the touch and blistered like she had been burnt, her tears hissing as they fell on her cheeks. No one could stand to touch her for a moment; only the lady in white could balance out the heat of the child. Her skin was as cool as starlight and she cradled the babe to her breast, hushing and singing quietly to calm the pitiful weeping. Trees bowed out of the way, creating a path for the two, and those that followed with fluttering ears and sparkling eyes.

The child was given a pillow and was fed icy water, falling asleep in the arms of the lady in white. No one dared disturb them for the lady looked down upon the infant with such love, with such hope that any interruptions would be severely frowned upon. A male elf with pale hair that shone, looked on with just as much emotion, quietly placing his hand on the lady’s shoulder,

“ _She has been given by the stars_ ,” he commented quietly and the lady smiled,

“ _She will grow to be a great flame_ ,” the infant’s eyes opened and sudden warmth radiated around the chamber, “ _She will be the fire in the heart of this land_ ,” there was a pause where the two simply looked down at the baby with soft smiles and sparkling eyes.

“ _She will be needed; they are always are needed_ ,” the male grew sad and his hand dropped to his side, “ _She is not ours to keep_ ,”

“ _They have roots in this land, in us, in everyone and everything_ ,” the lady paused, stroking the infant’s bare scalp, “ _She will belong to no one until the fate of evil has been decided; that is why they were created - to protect the light from the darkness_ ,”

“ _Then we will teach her, we will prepare her_ ,” and the lady agreed with another shimmering smile, catching one small hand in hers for a moment,

“ _She will be magnificent_ ,” the lady decided, “ _Celemîr_ ,” and that was that.


	2. Chapter 2

The gathering grew day by day; men, dwarves and elves alike joined together to discuss the task no one wanted to carry out. All arrived on horseback, from great black stallions to tiny chestnut ponies. They came on the request of Gandalf, either by message or personal demand, however only one came on the orders of another. She came earlier than the others, riding in at dawn, leading the sun down the causeway to Imladris, its rays illuminating the snowy coat of her mare and reflecting off her silvery, white hair. A strange purity blazed through the brightening morning and followed her through the entrance gate and the breeze left in her wake was warm and comforting. A group of elves in purple robes greeted her in a circular courtyard,

“ _My lady_ ,” they called to her, bowing low before leading her horse towards the stables. The female elves chatted brightly as she was lifted down and handed a goblet of water, asking about her home and how their kin were doing, how the Lady of Light was faring and how the journey was. The way this creature held herself was similar to a flower sunning itself, her hair was a maze of intricate twists and braid, and her elvish was flawless; however she was remarkably shorter than the rest and her ears were not pointed. In fact, there were many things about this creature that suggested she was both elvish, and not. Her skin was pale and smooth, but there were dark freckles staining her cheeks, nose and jaw; her wide, round eyes held a blazing fire within them; her masculine clothes were dark colours and covered in mud, but she had a cloak of grey silk secured at her throat with a bright silver pin. The creature was not of Men either, because her breath carried a comfort and warmth found only in glowing embers, and she shone like the brightest star when she talked about her home and her kin.

The she-elves were hurried along by a male elf with a stern expression and he bowed to her, placing his palm over his heart in a friendly greeting,

“ _My lord Elrond is waiting for you_ ,” he told her in a soft voice and the female nodded, turning to the horse and taking down a long, thin sword that shone like obsidian. She secured it at her hip and then she was led by the elf up a flight of stone steps. The scene around her changed the higher she trod, soft blossom trees opening up to steep cliffs that parted wide for a river, each side of it holding delicate chambers and halls alive with activity. “ _I will inform his of your arrival my lady,_ ” and her companion disappeared through a winding archway. She paused on a platform to let the morning sun bathe her face and then looked out across the valley.

The peace was broken quite suddenly by a sharp pain in her shoulder, searing through her muscle and singeing her skin. She cried out and fell to her knees, her bones cracking and groaning. There was a whispering in her ear, delicate and breathy, in a language she had heard in her dreams and she could only moan in response. The sun was suddenly too high in the sky and far too bright, streaming down on her person and blinding her so all she could see was white. Her head buzzed and thrummed, the pain causing her whole arm to grown numb, spreading to her heart and squeezing it tight.

Someone screamed, far away and she tried to look around for the source, but her vision was still white.

“Who is crying?” her mouth wouldn’t open, the words echoing through her mind like she was speaking to a young child, “Let me help,” the screaming lessened to croaking sobs that knocked tears from her eyes, “Do not cry for the pain, do not despair,” she did not know who was crying, she did not know if it was her or if it was a memory, “Weep for life, will it to you!”

“It hurts,” the voice was tiny, straining against an unknown force. She cast her gaze around, panicked and searching, focusing on shadows and shapes that materialised through the bright whiteness that surrounded her. Trees emerged, grass flattened against her knees, figures knelt around a small child on the ground that was writhing about in pain, clawing at their shoulder and kicking their legs. One of the figures was larger than the others, standing up and running away through the trees, scouring the ground but she did not follow them, instead her vision focused on a twelve black riders tearing along a wide causeway next to a roiling white river. More screams filled her ears but these were different, more primal and high pitched, like the call of many tiny, dying birds. She could hear the thumping of hooves on the ground, the panting of the horses, the flapping of heavy black cloaks; she could see the riders enter a forest, cutting down trees and kicking up grass, snapping the reins to force the horses on faster. Then a terrible face appeared before her, pink and raw with saliva dripping off pointed, brown teeth, grey eyes that had no pupil and no ounce of goodness hidden within them. She tried to avert her gaze but everywhere she looked there were more faces, hollow cheeked and gaunt skinned, baring their teeth and licking their lips…

“A child!” she found her voice again, “A child is in danger!”

The faces morphed into one and their features softened, the skin ripened and the eyes shaped into the eyes of her kin,

“ _Celemîriell_ ,” the words were elvish and he put his hands on her chest, preventing her from sitting up, “ _What child_?”

“ _Four, by the ford with a man and one of them was in pain_ ,” her throat was painfully dry and she threw her arms around, clutching at the sheets she found herself lying on, “ _There were riders too, black and terrible with faces like the dead_ ,” sweat rolled down her back, “ _twelve of them, next to a river_!”

He darted away, shouting orders and commanding a search party to find the injured child. A young she-elf took his place, stroking her hair and smoothing her face with a wet cloth,

“ _You collapsed in the upper courtyard_ ,” the she-elf explained, “ _Lord Elrond found you and brought you here. My lady, you looked close to death – so pale and cold_ ,”

Celemîr put her hands to her forehead and moaned, the she-elf standing and moving to the window as a second person came into the room. It was an elderly man with a long white beard and grey robes; he had a twisted wooden staff in one hand and a goblet of wine in the other, “You gave us quite a fright my lady,” he had an intelligent voice, full of memory and song,

“I apologise Mithrandir, I do not know what came over me,” Celemîr sat up and looked around, accepting the wine from Gandalf and drinking deeply. The room was quite large with wide, glassless windows that looked out over the glades and the waterfalls that led down towards the great river; there were thick, stone pillars circling the bed and had delicate silks hanging off them, fluttering like clouds in the breeze; handsome chestnut chairs sat around the room, some at tidy tables and some in front of the windows; and the bed was circular, with feather pillows and soft linen covering the grass filled mattress. Celemîr sat in the middle with her legs crossed, a thin white negligee covering her overheated body and her hair was bundled on the crown of her head, secured with pins and ribbons.

“I do,” Gandalf looked at the she-elf pointedly and she bowed before hurrying out of the room, closing the heavy wooden doors behind her, “You hold a connection with a Mr Frodo Baggins of Bag End,”

“I did not know Hobbits had such abilities?” Celemîr tucked the top sheet around her and continued taking long sips of the wine,

“No, no,” he chuckled, “It was neither the Hobbit nor you who made this connection; it was an object of great power, forged by fire and worn by evil,” she shook her head in confusion, “The One Ring, Mr Baggins put it on and was struck into danger – to which you responded,”

“Oh yes, I know about this Ring. It is legendary,” Celemîr told him and dipped her head, “My mother helped make it,”

“Naur Dulin, the great beasts of fire that dwelt in volcanoes,” Gandalf confirmed, “Your mother happened to be in the very mountain that Sauron -,”

“Do not say his name!” her voice was shrill and her cheeks had drained of colour, “It hurts, deep within me,”

“That’s because you have a connection with him, and with the Ring,” Celemîr dropped her gaze, “Your mother’s involvement with the forging of the Ring meant that you share a link with Him. That is the reason why you felt Frodo put the Ring on, why you fell as he did – you saved him by warning us of the danger posed to him,”

“So I did not see a child – I saw this Hobbit and those black riders! They were the twelve lord kings of Mordor! I saw them!” she announced loudly, “Is he okay? Is he alive? I could feel his pain and I spoke to him,”

“I cannot say at this very moment _Celemîriell_ but your warning gave the elves time to send out a party to search for him,” Gandalf sat down in a chair situated next to the bed and leaned his head back, closing his eyes for a moment and Celemîr did the same, resting against the pillows.

“My Lady Galadriel spoke of a journey I must take,” she spoke quietly after a long while, “She told me that I must aid the Ring bearer, be their light through the darkest of moments; until the very end,”

“It is not a journey you will perish on, but gain strength and wisdom that will enable you to defend Middle Earth when the time calls,” he was defiant in his answer, “there is no way to see the future when it is not yet set in stone, our paths are forged by the choices we make – you must take your fate into your own hands now,”

Celemîr dropped her shoulders and gazed out across the room, watching the leaves of the trees outside the window, watching them flit about in the breeze like small birds, “I am scared Gandalf; this connection I have with the Dark Lord, it will get stronger will it not?” she knew the answer, shutting her eyes tight when Gandalf gave her a sad look, his eyes crinkling with sympathy, “What can I do? Is there a way to resist him?” he shook his head solemnly,

“I’m afraid that all you can do is keep to the light, seek the goodness within your soul and keep it bright,” Gandalf curled his fingers together in his lap, “Mordor is the source of your power, as is Mount Doom where you were created which means you will grow stronger as you get closer Sauron-,” Celemîr flinched, “but he will only seek to enter your mind and control it – you must not let him do this,”

She pulled back the covers and set her feet down on the cool stone floor, testing out her strength before standing up straight. The dress fell to her knees and Gandalf saw her skin glow slightly as she finished the last of the wine in the goblet,

“I will try,” she walked to the window and touched the leaves on the tree, smoothing the blossoms between her fingers, “I will try for the good of Middle-Earth,”

 

 

Celemîr was the only female member of the council and every single male made it plain that she was not deemed ‘fit’ to be there. She was clothed in white, her purity shining like starlight and many found themselves staring at her, even if they were criticising her involvement with the council. She was small, only a little taller than the tallest dwarf which made her status even lower in the eyes of others, casting her dark looks as she swayed through the courtyard.

“Celemîriell, please sit at my side,” Lord Elrond had been watching her embarrassment blossoming the more the males stared at her and although her presence was not usually required at the councils, he felt protective of her status and place there. She waltzed over to him with her chin held high and Elrond gestured to the chair to his right, “Thank you for what you did,”

“I did not know what it was, I thought the Hobbit was a child at first but then Gandalf helped me see sense,” Celemîr lowered herself into a chair and crossed her ankles, “It seems as though my fate is tied with the Ring’s,” Elrond nodded gravely and held an expression that mirrored Gandalf’s from earlier that day. The wizard in question was mumbling to the Hobbit, leaning low and hardly moving his mouth. Celemîr pursed her lips and sat up a little straighter when Elrond stood, flattening his robes against his thighs before he spoke,

“Strangers from distant lands, friends of old,” he began, opening his arms with a warm smile, “You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor,” his face turned grey and everyone in the courtyard bristled at the name, “Middle Earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it,” the sun still shone but Celemîr felt a hard chill creep along her skin, and she was sure that she wasn’t the only one who experienced it, “You will unite or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom,” Elrond’s gaze settled heavily on the Hobbit and beckoned him forward, “Bring forth the Ring, Frodo,” the Hobbit seemed divided on whether he should do as Elrond asked, or run away and hide under a bed. But he stood up, a little shakily and reached into the pocket of his breeches,

“Oh,” Celemîr clenched the arms of the chair she was sitting in as the Hobbit placed a small golden ring on the stone plinth in the middle of the courtyard. Elves, Men and Dwarves were sat around it in a half-circle with Elrond, Celemîr and three other high status Elves sat facing the gathering; and every single being reacted to the reveal of the Ring,

“So it’s true,” one Man slapped his hand over his mouth in awe and then began to bite his fingernails. Celemîr could not take her eyes off the Ring, her heart warming and her stomach roiling at the mere sight of it. She did not dare to think of what happened if she touched it,

“In a dream,” her vision was interrupted bythe same Man standing up, also staring intently at the Ring, “I saw the Eastern sky grow dark,” he walked towards the plinth, “In the West, a pale light lingered and a voice was crying ‘your doom is near at hand, Isildur’s bane is found’,” Elrond gave Gandalf a concerned look and then tucked his hand over Celemîr’s, his cool skin bringing soothing relief to her, “Isildur’s Bane,” the Man reached out, his fingers inches from the Ring and Elrond jumped to his feet with a shout,

“Boromir!” black clouds blocked the sun suddenly, shadows growing longer and blacker; a sharp wind ripped through the council and thrust golden leaves up into the air,

“ _Ash nazg durbatul’k_ ,” Celemîr was speaking, her face distorted with a shadow, her voice rasping and cold, her eyes blazing with a fire seen only in the darkest pits of where evil dwelt, “ _Ash nazg gimbatul_ ,” at her words, one of the Dwarves cried out and Boromir shrunk back into his seat, “ _Ash nazg thrakatul’k. Agh bursum-ishi krimpatul_ ,”

The sky gradually lightened as Celemîr’s light returned, her eyes smoothing back to their original golden hazel and they watched the Ring glow with the inscription she had been reading out. She did not know how she knew those words, it was as if another being was speaking through her and she closed her eyes. Tiny, strained pants, like a small butterfly echoed into her ear and she let out a long sigh,

“Never before has anyone uttered the words of that tongue here in Imladris,” Elrond was upset with her and Celemîr opened her eyes again, looking up into his horrified face,

“It spoke through me,” she defended carefully and Elrond frowned, noticing those nearest to them were speaking darkly amongst themselves about what Celemîr had just admitted,

“Aye, it is a gift!” Boromir has stood up again, silencing the muttering, “a gift to the foes of Mordor. Why not use the Ring?” he began to walk around the courtyard, addressing everyone, “Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe. Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy; let us use it against him,”

“You cannot wield it, none of us can,” Celemîr knew the man who spoke, he was Aragorn, a promised king who had strayed far from the path of his kin, “The One Ring answers to Sauron alone, it has no other master,” the name struck a nerve deep within her and she hissed, only loud enough for the Hobbit to hear and he gave her a funny look,

“And what would a ranger know of this matter?” Boromir was venomous in his words and Celemîr watched as a golden haired elf leapt to his feet,

“This is no mere Ranger. He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn; you owe him your allegiance,” the elf growled, puffing his chest out in defiance,

“Aragorn! This…is Isildur’s heir?” said Boromir disbelievingly, staring at Aragorn,

“And heir to the throne of Gondor,” the elf added, a little smugly and walked back to his seat,

“Gondor has no king,” Boromir returned to his chair, watching the elf stiffly. Gandalf cleared his throat,

“Aragorn is right,” he agreed, “We cannot use it,” but he cast a gaze over to Celemîr and she bowed her head solemnly,

“You have only one choice; the Ring must be destroyed,” Elrond concluded and no one moved for a moment, basking in the statement,

“Then what are we waiting for?” a dwarf with long, bristly red hair lunged towards the Ring, swinging his axe around,

“NO!” He struck the Ring with all his might. An enormous force threw the dwarf off his feet, the Hobbit leant forward with a groan, several elves jumped out of their seats and a few Men covered their faces; but it was Celemîr who was affected the most. The moment the axe came down on the Ring, a lightning pain ripped through her heart which caused her to cry out and crumble forward. It was if she had been hit with the axe, the pain was so raw and so hot that she clawed at her dress to check to see that she was not bleeding,

“The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli, son of Gloin, by any craft that we here possess,” Elrond stayed sitting as Aragorn threw himself to the ground and tended to Celemîr, lifting her gently from the floor and checking her chest; finding there was a thick red mark stretched across her sternum, “The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom, by the hand of this creature’s mother,”

All eyes turned to Celemîr in surprise, horror and distaste,

“She is connected to the Ring as it is connected to the Dark Lord, she feels what it feels and knows His mind,” Gandalf took over explaining and Gimli thrust a menacing finger at her,

“Then she is a spy of Mordor!” he accused and Aragorn instantly reacted, growling dangerously at the dwarf,

“She is no more a spy than you or I; Celemîr will be your greatest ally Master Dwarf, do not test her loyalty,” his voice was low, commanding and reassuring the council that she was not to be feared,

“The Ring was forged in Mordor and only there can it be unmade, cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came,” Elrond continued gravely and once again Boromir began to talk,

“One does not simply walk into Mordor,” he was frustrated, clenching his fists and fidgeting, “Its black gates are guarded by more than just orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep and the great eye is ever watchful. Tis a barren wasteland, riddled with fire and ash and dust, the very air you breathe is a poisonous fume,” Boromir shook his head in disbelief, “Not with ten thousand men could you do this; it is folly,” his words sparked outrage,

“Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said?” the silver haired elf lunged forward, “The Ring must be destroyed,”

“And I suppose you think you’re the one to do it?” Gimli stood as well, narrowing his eyes dangerously,

“And if we fail what then? What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?” Boromir’s anxiety seemed to affect everyone and suddenly the mood changed, Men and Elves starting to bicker amongst themselves,

“I will be dead before I see the Ring in the hands of an elf!” Gimli’s shout was the last thing Celemîr heard clearly before the courtyard erupted in argument and chaos. Celemîr sat forward and trained her eyes on the small Hobbit, finding that he was staring at the Ring with a pained expression on his face. She ignored the bellowing around her and crept over to him, kneeling beside his chair and gently touching his arm,

“Do not listen to it little one,” she told him, her voice causing his eyes to close in comfort and his shoulders relaxed, “Do only what is right, and I will follow,” Celemîr held his gaze carefully and squeezed his hand,

“I will take it,” the Hobbit cried out, not taking his eyes off her, “I will take it!” he leapt to his feet bravely, “I will take the Ring to Mordor!”

Silence followed his words and everybody turned to him in surprise, sorrow and horror,

“Though, I do not know the way,” he looked up at Celemîr and she smiled,

“I am bound to the Ring, and now to you Master Hobbit,” her reply caused Gandalf to stride to her side,

“I will also help you bear this burden Frodo Baggins, as long as it is yours to bear,”

Then Aragorn stood, he had been watching the argument unfold from where he was sat,

“If by my life or death I can protect you; I will,” he knelt before the Hobbit, “You have my sword,”

“And you have my bow,” the silver haired elf joined them, followed by Gimli,

“And my axe,” they both grimaced at each other,

“You carry the fate of us all little one,” Boromir came and placed himself next to Celemîr, “If this is indeed the will of the council, then Gondor will see it done,”

There was a shout from behind the seven and a second Hobbit scampered to Frodo Baggins’ side,

“Mr Frodo’s not going anywhere without me!” he had a distinctive accent and folded his arms across his chest in defiance,

“No indeed it is hardly possible to separate you,” Lord Elrond was exasperated, “Even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not!”

And then two other Hobbits burst through the rest of the group, pushing to stand with Frodo,

“We’re coming too!” one cried, he was wearing a plum jacket whereas the other was wearing an emerald one and they both had shaggy, blonde hair, “You’d have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us,”

“Anyway, you need people of intelligence on this sort of mission – quest – thing -,” the second Hobbit tried to sound larger than life but his purple adorned counterpart scoffed,

“Well that rules you out Pip,” he grumbled and ‘Pip’ scowled at his friend.

Celemîr no longer felt alone on this journey, she did not feel as though she was taking her final steps on her own and the way Lord Elrond was looking at the ten of them made her feel like she had finally chosen her own fate.

“Ten companions,” the sun emerged from behind a cloud at his word and bathed them in golden light, “So be it! You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring!”

‘Pip’ nodded in agreement and said,

“Great! Where are we off to?”

Gandalf thumped him.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing Celemîr did before setting out was climb to the highest point of Imladris and breath freely for what she deemed was the last time. It was the furthest point away from the Ring and so she let her eyes close in tranquillity, settling against the rock and tucking her legs away,

“ _It is too soon to tell your fate_ ,” she heard a soft voice echo around her, “ _Even I cannot show you what is held for you because there are too many paths you could take_ ,”

“ _My Lady_?” Galadriel’s voice carried away in the wind as the silver haired elf trotted up the steep path Celemîr had used to find her spot,

“ _Legolas,_ ” her voice was shaky, “ _Son of Thranduil, of Mirkwood; I have not seen you in an age,_ ” he nodded but did not smile,

“ _You disappeared after the battle for the mountain_ ,” Legolas said, “ _I tried to look for you; my father wanted to see you again_ ,” Celemîr closed her eyes briefly, remembering the king of the woodland realm and his glory. His piercing blue eyes and his gaunt skin floated in front of her eyelids, drifting in and out of focus until she returned her gaze to Legolas. He was the splitting image of his father; tall, broad shoulders, golden hair, agonisingly deep blue eyes, and rigid posture.

“ _I came here, to rest and to learn,_ ” she told him, “ _My journey took me back through Mirkwood and I stayed with your father before moving onwards. He gave me the comfort and safety I needed; I was weak and vulnerable, and he helped me regain my strength. Then I continued on to Lorien, where I took lesson under Galadriel. I was only able to learn in Lorien or Imladris, anywhere else was unsafe_ ,”

“ _Because of Mordor_?” Legolas sat down and reclined next to her, smoothing a blade of grass between his long fingers, “ _I knew of the threat long before I was summoned here, but I did not know of your inclusion_ ,”

“ _I did not know the extent of the connection between the Dark Lord and I; Mithrandir explained to me what Galadriel had refrained from_ ,” Celemîr sighed, “ _But I do not condemn her, no – not at all; she was only waiting for the right time and right person. All this time, she had wanted Gandalf to tell me of my fate – of my final journey because he was to accompany me on it – not her_ ,” the sun was beginning to set and the shadows that thesurrounding cliffs cast were growing longer, the wind picking up and dropping in temperature,

“ _I don’t believe that this is your last journey Celemîr, you are too precious to be lost_ ,” Legolas looked at her sincerely and Celemîr rubbed her hands together to warm them, several sparks flying from her fingertips, “ _How have you come with your teachings, how developed is your knowledge now_?” he cast his mind back to when he first saw her in full form – at her most powerful; a great bird made of fire and light, spitting lightning and creating storms with her wings,

“ _I know all that I can_ ,” a heat was emitted from her words, clouding against the night and drifting away with the breeze, “ _It’s strange, this power -_ ,” Celemîr held out her palm and a small flame grew from her skin, dancing and frolicking around, “ _it has become a part of me and I wish only to use it for the goodness of Middle-Earth, to protect all who dwell here_ ,” Celemîr stood and brushed herself off, gazing out across the valley and breathing deeply. She could smell the remains of their feast, the far off scent of the sea, fresh blossoms and wet rock, and it caused her to mourn the Woods of Lorien for a moment. She turned to Legolas and found him shining in the cool moonlight that filtered through the black clouds, relishing in the silence of his surroundings.

“ _I will see you at dawn my friend_ ,” she bid him farewell and retreated back to the Halls of Elrond, carefully staying to the shadows as she wound her way to her quarters. Those who obstructed her path simply moved out of the way, bowing before carrying on; many were singing quietly to themselves and Celemîr recognised the song. It was only sung when the moon was full and was a rather wistful lullaby, asking for the moon to bless the month ahead and praising the stars who shone beyond the clouds. She stopped outside of her quarters and moved into a shaft of light was filtering from the window opposite, breathing the chill of the moon and sang a verse herself. It was short and almost inaudible, her lips barely moving, but beautiful and full of memory.

Celemîr retreated to the sunken bath in an alcove near her bed, undressing and letting her hair down from the knot. She slid into the pine smelling waters and smiled at the steam that danced on the surface, hissing a little when she swirled it with her fingers. It calmed her, the cool waters and the gentle moonlight, the candles grouped around the edge of the bath and the small bottles of perfumed soaps. Celemîr waved her palm and the flames grew, shaping into tiny horses and galloping around the room, brandishing their fiery manes and rearing on to the hind legs before disappearing into wafts of smoke. She sunk deeper into the water, dipping her head under and scrubbing her body of the dirt from her journey. She washed until her hair shone like silver and her skin glowed like the moon outside the windows. After, Celemîr stood with her eyes closed for a while, her naked body framed by the arches and she let the stars bathe her, she let the night breeze warm her and she squeezed her fists, the water evaporating from her hair in an instant.

The bed looked intimately inviting, the sheets folded back and the pillows plumped so much so that they whooshed when she lay her head down. Celemîr could not help but cast her gaze over to the table by the door where a pile of clothes sat, where a cloak hung from the chair and where a pair of handsome boots were leant against the table legs. Her sword lay on the table also, sharpened and sheathed, ready to go at a moment’s notice, as well as her bow and arrows. Someone had replaced her damaged arrow tips with sharper ones made of bronze and the string on her bow had been tightened. There was no way of knowing when she was going to need to use these weapons and Celemîr hoped that it wasn’t tomorrow, or the next day, or the next week; she hoped they ran into no enemy on the road to Mordor but any fool knew that was impossible.

 

 

The ten were stood at the gates of Imladris as the sun rose over the mountain tops, all with cloaks of green, food supplies and weapons. Celemîr stood behind Frodo, holding her bow in one hand and clutching the strap of a satchel in the other; containing food, healing supplies, a water skin and a woollen tunic (which she assured Elrond, would not be needed).The rest of the Fellowship had been given similar bags and several had tied them to the saddle of the small pony they were bringing along. Frodo’s companion, named Samwise, had told her to call the pony Bill and had excitedly recounted the story of their journey to Rivendell. Celemîr liked all of the Hobbits, she enjoyed their songs and their tales, and how excited they were about this journey; it caused her to feel more optimistic about the paths she was planning to take.

Lord Elrond and several other high elves, including his raven haired daughter, all sent the Fellowship away, blessing them and praising them in elven tongues. Celemîr walked with Legolas, staying by his side through forests and along mountain roads; warming the hands of the Hobbits when they complained of the cold; lighting the fires when the group stopped; illuminating the path during the night and when the days were overcast or misty; and singing short echoing verses when the silence became too much for them all. Pippin and Merry became entranced almost every time Celemîr spoke, watching her mouth form the letters and urging her to talk to them until she had nothing more to say,

“It is a curse,” they were situated on a rocky outcrop some hundred miles from Isengard, resting and recuperating after the lengthy climb up steep cliffs and through howling winds. The clouds had split after Celemîr aided Samwise in lighting the fire, making way for the sun and clear blue skies,

“They have yet to become used to you,” Celemîr was perched on a boulder a few meters away from Aragorn, who was smoking a pipe, “The Hobbits find Legolas quite intriguing too, they have never seen so many beautiful creatures together for such a long period of time,” he told her sympathetically, blowing wafts of white smoke in her direction. Celemîr merely brushed them away with a flick of her wrist, training her eyes on the two blonde Hobbits a little way down from where she and Aragorn were sat. They were practising with their swords, taking jabs and throwing slashes at Boromir who looked to be having glorious fun with them.

The other Hobbits, Frodo and Samwise, were sat watching the three practise too, with plates of hot food in their laps and their cloaks wrapped around their feet. Gandalf was sat farther up the outcrop, dozing while Legolas kept an eager eye out for danger and Gimli was leant stubbornly on his axe nearer to Celemîr,

“If anyone was to ask for my opinion, which I note that they’re not,” the dwarf began hastily, “I’d say that we’re taking the long way round,” he looked at the wizard who had his eyes closed and his hat tipped down over his brow, “Gandalf, we could pass through the Mines of Moria! My cousin Balin would give us a royal welcome,” Gimli went to the bottom of the rock which Gandalf was sat on,

“No, I would not take the road through Moria unless I had no other choice,” his answer was final and Gimli grumbled to himself, grunting as Legolas pushed passed him to the edge of the cliff, squinting into the sky. Celemîr looked too, not taking any notice of the commotion occurring behind her; Boromir had accidentally struck one of the Hobbits who had then attacked the man, along with the other. Aragorn had tried to intervene but ended up getting dragged to the ground himself, one of the Hobbits clinging to his legs and screaming ‘For the Shire’.

“What is that?” Samwise stood and held a hand up to shield his eyes,

“Nothing, it’s just a wisp of cloud,” Gimli reassured the Hobbit however Celemîr noted that he looked rather discomforted himself,

“It’s going against the wind,” she commented and realised that the mass was made up of tiny black specs, moving very quickly towards them,

“Crebain!” Legolas cried out, “From Dudland!” there was an immediate reaction, everyone scrambling around to put out fires and gather belongings,

“Hide!” Aragorn grasped Frodo and pulled him under a rock, Boromir doing the same to the other Hobbits so they were safe. Celemîr dove into a patch of thorny shrubbery, laying on her back and watching the sky above her for any movement. She heard Gandalf hush someone before hundreds of huge black ravens swarmed over the area which the Fellowship had just occupied, cawing so loudly that Celemîr had to cover her ears and close her eyes. The ravens circled the outcrop twice before moving away, screeching into the clouds and no one moved until they were a black wisp in the distance,

“Spies of Saruman,” Gandalf spoked accusingly, “The passage is being watched,” Frodo sat on the ground and put his head into his hands, “We must take the Pass of Caradhras,” the group cast their gaze upwards, almost deflating as one at the sight of the jagged snow-capped peaks that lay in their path.The eagerness of the Fellowship was not the same as when they left Imladris, all of them sluggishly picking up supplies and fixing their weapons to their bodies.

“You will be our way through the snow?” Legolas asked, falling into step with Celemîr, “It would make it easier for the others,” she knew that elves were light-footed and so he would not have to battle through the snow and she could easily melt a path for herself, but the ‘others’ Legolas spoke of could not do as they did; they were not as advanced as the elf or the Naur Dulin.

“Of course, I said I would help Frodo bear the weight so I will make our path easy going,” she smiled at the Hobbit who had looked around at the sound of his name, “ _But we must be careful Legolas_ ,” Celemîr continued gravely in Elvish, “ _the mountain is foul and I do not trust the paths we are taking_ ,”

 

The need came for Celemîr‘s gifts when the snow changed from ankle deep to thigh deep in a matter of minutes. She struggled to the front of the group and Gandalf urged them to stay in single file, letting Samwise and the pony settle in behind Celemîr. She pushed her fists out against the snow and let out a small breath, feeling her skin tingle as it warmed to nearly boiling temperature. The snow within two feet of her body quickly began to melt, enabling the Fellowship to move onwards. A journey which would have taken them a week only took a few days thanks to Celemîr carving a path through soft, freshly fallen snow and tightly packed black ice that hissed under her touch. Nothing stood in their way, except maybe the unpredictable weather,

“There is a fell voice on the air!” this time Legolas was in front, daintily treading over the snow while everyone else struggled through rifts twice the size of a Dwarf. They were attempting to navigate the Pass through a blizzard so violent that they only thing that anyone could see was flurries of white and grey; their faces were sticky with snow and their cloaks were nearly frozen solid. Aragorn and Boromir held two Hobbits each, carrying them like children and constantly making sure that their cloaks were wrapped tightly around their small bodies. Celemîr had resorted to blowing flames from her lips to carve a path because the snow fell as quickly as it melted; she was the torch in the storm, lighting their way with short glows of orange. They had left the pony behind because it would have not survived the cold and would have been a burden – spoken by Boromir who had cast a fond look over to Celemîr at the time.

“It’s Saruman!” Gandalf bellowed and an almighty crack threatened to deafen them all, causing everyone to flatten themselves against the side of the path so as to not get hit by the black, frozen rocks that tumbled down the mountain.

“He’s trying to bring down the mountain, Gandalf!” Aragorn shook snow from his face, “We must turn back!”

“No!” Gandalf pulled himself out of the snow and to the edge of the path, throwing out his arms and waving his staff through the air. His voice carried through the sharp wind and the hail that was beating down on them lessened for a few moments, but a second crack shook the mountain and a huge grey bolt of lightning shattered the air. Celemîr reacted instantly, snapping her hands flat together before whipping them upwards, commanding the lightning away from the Fellowship. It hit the mountain directly above them, shaking the rock and thrumming through their bones. Snow, ice and rock crashed downwards, surrounding the group and submerging them in seconds.

Moments passed during which nothing moved except for the wind which blew snow and sleet into humanoid shapes, all searching or leering or laughing.

Legolas was the first to tunnel his way from out of the snow, freeing his head fist but not making any other attempt to free any other part of his body. Boromir burst into the open, immediately checking to see if Pippin and Merry – the two blonde Hobbits – were hurt in any way,

“We must get off the mountain!” he shouted to Gandalf who was just emerging with choked grunts, “Make for the Gap of Rohan and take the west road to my city!”

Aragorn was digging Frodo and Samwise free, “The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard!”

“If we cannot pass over the mountain, let us go under it!” Gimli’s beard was no longer red having been flooded with ice and white snow, “Let us go through the Mines of Moria!”

Gandalf paused, still half buried in the snow and a dark shadow passed over his face. Several minutes passed before he spoke again, albeit very cautiously,

“Let the Ringbearer decide!”

Frodo was caught in the middle of a decision that he did not know the extent of and he looked at Samwise, who was shivering and shuddering under the snow. Celemîr appeared, coughing and spluttering, next to Samwise who helped brush snow from her hair. Frodo hesitated before he answered, noticing Gandalf’s sorrowful look at the same time as Celemîr,

“We will go through the Mines!”

“So be it,” Gandalfcast his eyes upwards to the mountain, staring at it as if it was talking to him, snarling at him, taunting him with things that only he could understand.


	4. Chapter 4

Moria was buried deep beneath the Misty Mountains accessed through many secret passages or the main gate; a huge walk way made of black stone that towered over the Fellowship’s heads, many meters up and across. The group however diverted under the walkway, treading through small rivulets and around clutches of dark trees. They came up against a sheer cliff face with a smooth black lake mirroring the sky before it, having to skirt the edge cautiously because nothing moved; nothing breathed or slept beneath the surface of the water. Celemîr could not fathom the uneasy feeling bubbling in her chest, glancing around herself and making sure everyone was in front of her so she could keep an accurate count of the group. She had never been to the Mines of Moria for there had been no need for her to accompany any peace or trade talks. It was dark and wet; everyone seemed to be weary of the shadows that moved too slowly and the wavering moonlight caused them to tread carefully so they would not fall in the lake.

“Ah-,” Gandalf strode up to the cliff face and started brushing leaves and dirt away from a particularly smooth area, “now let me see – _Ithildin_ ,” he looked up at the sky and blinked quickly, “It mirrors only starlight…and moonlight,” the clouds parted to reveal a brilliantly white half-moon that bathed the group in a cooling light. The rays hit the rock face and Celemîr watched on in awe as a beautiful door appeared in the space that Gandalf had been looking. It was an elven door, that was easy enough to deduce but one that Celemîr saw that it was similar to ones she had seen in Lothlorien; wide and arched with two pillars each side engraved with intricate swirls and symbols that were sacred only to the elves. Above the arch was a line of text etched into the rock, delicate words that pulsed gently under the moonlight,

“It reads ‘The Doors of Durin - Lord of Moria - Speak Friend and Enter’,” Gandalf pointed his staff at the text as he read it and Merry smiled widely,

“What do you suppose that means?” he asked with a childish enthusiasm,

“Oh it’s quite simple, if you are a friend, you speak the password and the doors will open,” Gandalf returned to the Hobbit and stood back, pressing the tip of his staff to the middle of the door, “ _Annon Edhellen, edro hi amen_!” he bellowed and Pippin joined Merry in watching on in excitement.

Nothing happened. Celemîr sat down at the edge of the lake dejectedly, tapping her feet on the surface of the water and noticing that even a movement as small as hers sent long ripples into the middle of the lake. Gandalf tried to open the door by shunting the rock with his shoulder and then folded his legs beneath himself, muttering elvish phrases under his breath. One by one, everyone began to entertain themselves; Gimli fell into a doze against a tree, Legolas remained on constant alert for danger, two of the Hobbits began throwing stones into the lake, Aragorn was helping Sam remove supplies from Bill the pony and Boromir was hovering near to Celemîr, watching her twirl tiny sparks around her fingertips.

There was a sudden commotion in which Gandalf had thrown his staff down and stomped over to the door, kicking it in frustration,

“It’s useless!” he cried out and then threw himself down next to Frodo, who was leaning against a large tree trunk. Aragorn had suddenly grasped Pippin and whispered for him to not disturb the water, for the rippled had begun to multiply into grey waves. Celemîr’s boots were splashed a little and she recoiled next to Boromir as if she had been burned by the water, and they looked at each other in concern,

“I do not like this,” he murmured to her and she gazed out across the lake, then to Aragorn who was doing the same and clutching Pippin,

“It’s a riddle!” Frodo chirped and turned to Gandalf, “Speak friend…and enter; what’s the elvish word for ‘friend’?”

The lake rippled vigorously, the waves lapping the shore and frothing against the rocks. Everyone withdrew from the water and fearfully grasped at their weapons, no one understanding why the lake was behaving so oddly.

“ _Mel-lon_ ,” Gandalf spoke deliberately and his voice vibrated through the mountain, a great crack appearing through the middle of the elven doorway and a huge pair of doors swung open with a thunderous rumble. Gimli was the first to enter the darkness, Gandalf going in after him and letting the crystal at the end of his staff to light the way. Celemîr made sure that the Hobbits went inside before her and she blew into her hands, a flame erupting from them and illuminating everything within six feet of her; the stone slabs on the floor, the black leaves, the arrow heads and rotting corpses near her feet.

“Oh my!” she exclaimed, stepping away in shock and she accidentally kicked a skull that was embedded with a long, black arrow. Celemîr watched in horror as Gimli fell to his knees next to a pile of skeletons, howling in grief. Legolas plucked an arrow up and smelt it in disgust,

“Goblins,” he declared and instantly, everyone grew on edge. Boromir and Aragorn drew their swords, Legolas loaded his bow and Celemîr’s flame increased in size until her whole forearm was engulfed with fire and was spitting red hot sparks.

“We should make for the gap of Rohan,” Boromir started to back out of the mountain, kicking and stumbling over dead bodies, “We should never have come here,”

There was a commotion and Frodo suddenly collapsed to the ground with a groan. Something that looked like a tentacle had wrapped around his foot, dragging him backwards and into the lake.

“Frodo!” Samwise shouted and pulled out his sword, rushing towards his friend to try and free him,

“STRIDER!” Frodo grappled at the ground, trying to get a hold, trying to stop the tentacle from bringing him into the roiling waters. Samwise leapt forward and hacked into the appendage, shrieking all the while until it retreated, the lake stilling for a second. Aragorn made to reach for Frodo but there was a colossal splash and suddenly he was flying through the air, tentacles of all shapes and sizes whipping and beating at the Fellowship. Everyone was shouting, brandishing weapons, trying to get to Frodo who was being thrown limply around by the creature. Celemîr saw its body emerge from the water, a great black animal with six eyes and long, fat arms reaching over a spiked beak like the tendrils of a filthy beard. It made noises like a bear, roaring and spitting as Boromir waded into the water to fight to try and get to Frodo, Aragorn doing the same. Legolas reared back an arrow and shot the creature in the eye, flinching at the great cry it gave out, so loud that rocks shuddered down the mountainside,

Aragorn was waving hysterically at her, “Celemîr!” he pointed to the tentacles and she responded instantly, reaching out and grabbing the tip of one of them. It was cold and slippery beneath her fingers but her skin heated up and the scent of burning flesh filled her nostrils. The creature let out another cry of pain, coupled with Boromir managing to slice the arm holding Frodo and catching him as he fell,

“Into the Mines!” Gimli was still stood within the cave, waving his arms and beckoning them all hurriedly towards him,

Boromir swiftly ran through the water, kicking and punching any tentacle that tried to retake Frodo. He shouted at Legolas and the elf put second arrow into the same eye of the creature, angering it even more but it did not follow them into the mines, simply slamming the elven gates closed behind them, hitting the rock so hard that the roof caved in, boulders falling all around them and blocking all light that still managed to creep in. Celemîr could hear nine people panting, someone coughed and she could still faintly hear Gimli moaning about the amount of corpses littering the floor. She summoned her flame again, this time she let it dance in front of her, moving to her will and it cast a warm light all around, drying off clothes and melting their chilled bones. Gandalf lit his staff too, though it did not cast off such a bright light,

“We now have but one choice,” he turned towards them all, “We must face the long darkness of Moria, be on you guard,” they started to walk slowly up the wide steps, “There are older and more fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world,”

 

It took four days to cross Moria, four days trekking through dark passages and in between high walls that once housed a great mining colony. Gimli took pride in his people, showing them tiny rivulets of pure silver in the rock, telling them all about the riches of the dwarves and how the wealth of Moria was seen in Mithril – a virtually indestructible silver metal that was worth more than the entire Shire. Celemîr remembered that Thorin, king of Erebor gave a shirt of Mithril rings to Bilbo as a gift, before the battle for the mountain and she smiled at the small memory, her skin glowing and throwing off a grander light than her fire, carving the way through the tunnels for a good few hours before it dwindled with her changing mood. Samwise wondered aloud about her powers, asking nervously what she could do and if he could touch her without getting burned, to which she touched his cheek and they both blushed. She walked with the squat Hobbit for a long time, talking to him about the Shire and asking him to describe it. He obliged happily and raved about his garden and the Green Dragon and Rosie and his house and Frodo’s house, the fields, the farmers and the food. Samwise was reciting a poem he had thought up as a young Hobbit when the group had stopped quite suddenly, gathering around Gandalf who had stood in front of three equally dark door ways with Dwarfish runes engraved into the lintels.

And there they stayed for several long hours, resting around the cavern, eating and smoking wistfully. Celemîr was tucked up next to Legolas, who had begrudgingly sat down after she had moaned about him making her feel uneasy with his constant standing,

“What if we are attacked?” he asked her, crossing his arms stiffly,

“Then we shall counter it,” Celemîr replied lazily, “Everybody here has enough wits about them to react, there is no need to worry Legolas,” but he did not relax, sitting tight and tensing all his muscles every time someone moved. Gandalf was sat on a boulder facing the three doorways, holding his staff and clenching his eyes closed, Frodo at his side and he kept looking around nervously. Celemîr paid no mind to the jittery Hobbit, wrapping herself in her cloak and lolling her head on to Legolas’ shoulder, smiling when he grumbled at her dopiness.

“Ah!” Gandalf’s voice woke everyone from their daze and they stood, gathering their belongings and following down the left-hand passage, following the blinking white light of Gandalf’s staff. Celemîr remained at the back of the line, her flame throwing shadows up the walls, reaching out to each of them with clawed fingers. The passage took them ever downwards, the ground sloping gently and the air turning colder the further they went, new smells filling their noses; it changed from wet, icy rock to smoke and old cloth, the smell of ancient industry. The two blond Hobbits were walking in front of Celemîr, huddling close to each other through the unfamiliar tunnels, wrapping their cloaks around their bodies when they strayed too far from her flames. Both the Hobbits made soft gasping sounds when the Fellowship emerged from the passage, taking in great breathes of clear air,

“Celemîriell,” Gandalf called back to her, “If you would risk more light please,” the Hobbits watched as her flame rose higher than even Aragorn and grew suddenly very bright, emitting such a pure, golden light that they had to turn away. The flame illuminated every corner, every crack in the rock, every huge stone pillar that stood around them, every arch in the ceiling, every wrought iron bar decorating the chamber. It was immense, so large that they could not see the far side of it, only darkness and more grand pillars. Their footsteps echoed loudly as they walked, slowly with lifted chins, admiring the handiwork of the stone and the cavernous structures of the dwarves,

“Behold! The great realm and Dwarf-city of Dwarrowdelf!”Gandalf’s voice carried throughout the chamber, reverberating through each one of the group and Celemîr let her flame dwindle a little as they approached a natural beam of light, filtering through a circular cut above a doorway inscripted with dwarfish runes. Gimli must have recognised the runes because he let out an anguished wail and raced towards it, ignoring Gandalf’s pleas for him to stop.

From what little she knew of Khuzdul, Celemîr grew sad with the knowledge that Gimli had found a tomb. There was a high window on the far wall, letting white sunlight filter through the chamber and out into the halls beyond, illuminating the large marble sarcophagus situated in the centre of the room. All around it lay bones, helmets, clothes, shields and swords; evidence of a battle lost many months ago. There was no mistaking the female drab on some of the skeletons, curled up in groups in the corner of the room, some still clutching each other, covered in a thick layer of brown dust. Gimli fell to his knees in front of the sarcophagus, weeping loudly and Boromir stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Gandalf brushed the top stone, sweeping away dirt and dust,

“Here lies Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria,” he read out and Celemîr’s throat closed in grief, falling against the wall behind her and the flame above her head went out with a hiss of black smoke. She had travelled with Balin, fought with him, left him at Erebor to bury the king; she was his friend. She remembered all the times he urged her to follow the path of righteousness, shouting at the king when she was accused of being a spy, letting her choose from the vast hordes of jewels beneath the mountain, telling she was welcome to them at any time. Celemîr had not seen any of her dwarf friends since she left them fifty years ago, turning and vowing never to look upon the shadow of that mountain again. And now here she was, mourning the death of someone she wished she had known in his later life,

“Celemîr, are you okay?” Samwise crouched next to her and touched her hand, feeling that it was colder than the rock that surrounded them. She cast her eyes over to the coffin,

“I knew him, he was a friend,” she sniffed and tried to return his reassuring smile. Her focus suddenly moving to Gandalf, who had swooped down and gently plucked a positively giant leather bound book from the clutches of a small skeleton. He opened it and blew away several dead moths from the page,

“They have taken the bridge, and the second hall,” he read out, following the text with his fingers, “We have barred the gates but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes. Drums, drums in the deep,” his voice was low as he carefully turned the page and Samwise moved away from Celemîr, tucking himself behind Frodo in fright, “We cannot get out. A shadow moves in the dark,” no one saw Pippin, one of the blonde Hobbits, move away from the group, inspecting a corpse balanced precariously on the edge of a deep well, “We cannot get out…they are coming,” Gandalf peered around at them all, fear burning bright in his eyes.

 

There was an almighty crash and everybody threw their gazes at Pippin who stood frozen to his place, his hand still outstretched over the well. He had touched the corpse, picking at the arrow embedded in its chest and he had accidentally dislodged the head, it falling backward in into the well. The body followed, slowly tipping and clattering deep into the depths of the mines, the noises it made echoing through the floor and the walls. It seemed to last for an age, no one moving as the corpse continued falling, bashing and banging against everything imaginable, surely being heard all the way back in Rivendell. Pippin turned back to the group, flinching as the noises grew fainter until they echoed into nothing, everyone holding their breath and listening closely for any sign of any thing.

“Fool of a Took!” Gandalf slammed the old book shut and placed it on the sarcophagus, “Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!”

Then the drums started, softly and slowly at first, growing louder and more terrible with each strike. It vibrated through their very beings, draining all hope from their faces and causing the sword at Frodo’s hip to glow blue,

“Frodo!” Samwise pointed at the sword and Legolas leapt forward with his bow raised,

“Orcs!” he shouted and there came monstrous noises from outside the tomb, snarls and screeches approaching from all directions. Boromir lunged forward and pushed the doors closed, struggling because they were in such a deep state of decay and also because arrows were being shot at his person. Aragorn took out his sword and went to help, blocking the doors with anything they could find; spears, bones, swords and pieces of wood,

“They have a cave-troll,” Boromir snipped, pulling out his sword and holding up his shield, as Celemîr knocked her bow. The door rattled dangerously; creatures of brown skin and slimy fingers pushing on the barricade and screaming, hurling insults and battle cries; spears tore through the wood, creating holes where Celemîr and Legolas could shoot arrows but as each victim fell, another foul being took their place. In a matter of seconds, the door splintered and orcs poured into the tomb like rats around a carcass, filling the corners and advancing on the ten, wielding weapons that dripped black poison and were sharpened to lethal points. The Hobbits had gathered around Gandalf in the chaos, holding their tiny swords in tiny shaking fingers, their faces as white as the light that filtered through the room. Celemîr used her bow as a baton, smashing armour and piercing throats with the end of it, trying desperately to spare her arrows. Everyone was scattered; Samwise was defending himself and Frodo with a frying pan; Merry and Pippin seemed to be fighting as one, taking on just as many orcs as any other full-breed; Boromir was yelling and whooping with each creature he cut down; Gimli swung his axe around like a mill, striking anything that tried to attack him; Gandalf and Aragorn were stood back to back, kicking and jabbing with their swords; and Legolas was perched on the back of a cave troll.

It was a wonder that Celemîr didn’t see it come into the tomb because there was a rather large, troll-sized hole where the door used to be and there was rubble all around them. The elf swayed precariously and shot an arrow into the back of the troll’s head, leaping off and turning to see its reaction. The wound seemed only to have angered it and Legolas had to dive for cover as it launched towards him with an ear piercing snarl. Celemîr continued fighting, cutting this way and that, continuing to use only her bow as a weapon – until it was knocked from her hands when a particularly fat orc delivered a brutal blow to her chest. She was shunted on to her back from the impact and she cried out as several of the creatures circled her, their teeth dripping with saliva and their barbaric weapons raised.In a fit of panic, she fumbled for her sword, pulling it out and whipping it across her path; the orcs fell in a heap, their torsos cut cleanly in half. Boromir shouted for her and pointed at the cave troll, who was advancing into a corner with a huge spear,

“FRODO!” someone shrieked and Celemîr felt an ache in her sternum, blossoming from below her heart, letting out a gasp when she saw the Ring bearer fall. The cave-troll’s spear was embedded in his chest, his mouth was open in shock and he crumbled to the floor with a grunt.

There was a small moment, a brief pause in the battle as the troll reared back with a sort of pleased look about its terrible face. Then Merry and Pippin yelled out, and threw themselves on to its back, stabbing their small knives with a fury seen only in revenge. Celemîr resumed her attack, swirling her sword, cursing the goblins and the orcs, waving her fingers and melting the weapons that they held. Many fled from her wrath, bumping into each other only to be met by the blade of Gandalf, squealing as he slayed them. She could not see Aragorn or Gimli, only Legolas who was aiming his bow up at the troll, shooting when it reared its head with a menacing growl in an attempt to dislodge to two small Hobbits it its back. The elven arrow went straight through the roof of its mouth and Celemîr felt a little upset when it gave a moan of pain, raising its fingers to touch the wound. She watched it fall, throwing Pippin and Merry to the side, and it did not move. Silence fell among them,

“Frodo?” Samwise was knelt next to his friend, hands hovering over his head,

Aragorn appeared from a pile of rubble, “Oh no,” he crawled over to the Hobbit and grasped his shoulder, turning him over.

Frodo let out a gasp, as if his head had been submerged underwater, causing Sam to tear up,

“He’s alive!” he cried and Celemîr sheathed her sword, dropping to her knees,

“You should be dead!” she muttered, “That spear should have killed you!” Frodo looked down at his chest and fumbled with his shirt, unbuttoning it an revealing a fine layer of chain mail,

“Mithril!” Gimli emerged from the gloom, “you are full of surprises Master Baggins,” Celemîr busied herself with the chainmail, humming at how light and warm it was, dipping her fingers beneath his shirt,

“I will heal this,” she pressed against the bruise on his chest, where the spear should have pierced his skin and his cheeks turned pink at the contact. They were interrupted by a series of echoing growls outside the tomb, and a rolling growl revealed that the group had to move on,

“To the bridge of Khazad-Dûm!” Gandalf raised his staff and they all raced out of the tomb, via a previously unseen backdoor. Celemîr lit her flame again and let it spread when they emerged back in the huge chamber, the pillars now crawling with tiny black shapes and the horizon behind them rippling like a great shadowous sea. She turned to her right and spread her arms, a huge wave of orange fire erupting from her skin and racing towards the orcs pursuing the group but as they were burned, another hundred dropped from the ceiling to take their place. She continued anyhow, thrusting her arms out and grunting with the effort, ducking when Legolas shot his arrows, dodging Boromir’s sword and Gandalf’s staff. They were soon surrounded, goblins and foul creatures closing in on all sides, pointing their spears and black shafts at them, snarling and spitting and hissing.

There was a lull in the chaos, the Fellowship huddling together with the Hobbits in the centre, shielding them with cries of battle. Aragorn was the first to see it, a distant glowing, pulsing like the breath of a great beast,

“Celemîr,” he touched her shoulder, “Celemîr, tell me that’s you,”

There came a low rumble, dangerous and shuddering, dust falling from cracks in the ceiling and the goblins turned towards the glow, some of them squealing upon seeing it. Then they scrambled, pushing and shoving each other to get back up the pillars and through the crevasses in the ceiling. Many of them just ran across the chamber to the passage ways hidden in the shadows, leaving the Fellowship exposed to the pulsing glow that was creeping closer and closer. They looked at Celemîr, flinching as the roars became louder and even more catastrophic, pieces of rock falling around them. She touched her eyes and began to shudder, not daring to turn to face the oncoming storm,

“It’s-it’s not me,” she said, “This is new - ,”

“Can you control it?” Boromir clutched her shoulders, shaking her a little, “Is it of your kind?” he was bordering on hysterical and Celemîr wrenched her arms from his grip, moving away from the group,

“A Balrog!” Gandalf pulled her forward, “A demon of the ancient world, this foe is beyond any of you,” he pushed the Hobbits in front, “Run! Quickly!”

And so they did, darting down passages and ducking under low hanging ledges, slipping and sliding down wide stair cases, all the while the Balrog following them with a fiery breath that threatened to melt their skin. More than once they were led to dangerously high places; Boromir nearly falling off a cliff into black shadow but Legolas managed to keep him from teetering off the edge. They had come to a grinding halt on a steep set of stairs in a chamber glowing with the fires of the goblins far below them. Gandalf threw himself forwards off the edge and landed on the other side of the steps, almost falling to his knees with the impact. Legolas followed daintily, pulling out his bow and aiming around them for arrows had begun to fly, coming from a high balcony several hundred meters away. Goblins and orcs were perched there, snapping arrows at the Fellowship and preventing Aragorn from advancing just as Legolas did. Celemîr saw that each time the elf struck one orc, another took their place so she chose her time and sprung across the gap, narrowly missing an arrow aimed for her head,

“Here,” she handed Legolas a few arrows and knocked one into her own bow, raising at the same time he did, “Shoot the ledge,” he cast her a confused look but obeyed, letting their arrows fly. He noticed that the shafts were smoking as they sailed towards the orcs, and a huge explosion rocked the mountain, the ledge bursting into flames. Red rocks were spat from the inferno, knocking into the steps and dislodging the part they had just ventured down, causing Aragorn and Frodo to fall on their backs to avoid being thrown into the abyss. Smoke filled the ceiling of the chamber and Legolas took Celemîr’s waist, pulling her away from the edge and watching Aragorn hold on to Frodo in the same way,

“Steady!” he shouted, “Lean forward!” the single unit teetered back and then groaned as the Hobbit and the human shifted their weight, rock clashing against rock as the pieces of stair collided. Aragorn launched himself and Frodo away from the falling structure and then everyone was running again, slipping and stumbling down the staircases. The tunnels and passageways opened up quite suddenly to a wide chamber, one side of it veering off over the side of a sharp cliff, the blackness of the chasm threatening to trip them up as they attempted to cross the bridge of Khazad-Dûm. It was no wider than Boromir’s shield and it was a wonder how all of them managed to cross it without stumbling or tripping, even the Hobbits were light on their feet, flying over to the other side with the grace of an elf. Celemîr, who had been the third to cross the bridge, let out a high pitched cry when she turned back to make sure the rest had made it, falling short when she saw what was following them. The Balrog was like nothing she’d ever seen before, a huge horned demon towering over them all with black skin and fiery eyes, a sword greater than the tallest tree in its monstrous hand. It snarled and roared as it grew closer, the heat radiating from its smoking nostrils coated their skin and dirtied their clothes, turning everything a ghastly, sooty black. Celemîr could not take her eyes off it, following each movement it made with parted lips and horror etched across her face,

“You cannot pass!” Gandalf’s voice echoed around the chamber, reaching deep into her chest and she turned to see him stood in the middle of the bridge, brandishing his staff like a great white torch. He spoke of his power and threatened the Balrog, trying to prevent it from crossing the bridge but the creature only raised its mighty sword with a roar and brought it down on Gandalf. Gimli called out in distress and they all saw, to their utter horror, that the Balrog was wielding a whip forged from fire and lightning.

“YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” Gandalf shrieked and raised his staff, striking it hard into the stone he was standing on. A colossal crack echoed round the chamber and everybody held their breath, the Balrog stepping back as if he was waiting for something grand to occur. Then it all happened at once; the bridge of Khazad-Dûm split in two, crumbling beneath the feet of the fire demon, sending him tumbling down into the darkness, his roars and shrieks shaking the very foundations of the mountain. Celemîr felt something pulling at her heart, a strange feeling, as though there was a hand tugging on the tendons and squeezing the muscle. Gandalf turned back towards the Fellowship and Frodo called out to him, Aragorn holding out his arm to hurry the wizard along.

There was an ear piecing snap and a fiery rope wrapped around Gandalf’s ankle, dragging him over the side of the bridge, knocking his sword and staff from his hands. Frodo screamed out and darted forwards to help, but Boromir stopped him, scooping the Hobbit into his arms and holding him close like a child. Celemîr watched in horror as the wizard struggled to keep himself upright, his body dangling from the broken end of the bridge, his hands turning white from his effort to hold on,

“Fly you fools!” and he let go, dropping from their sights and being swallowed by the same darkness that consumed the Balrog. Only chaos followed; all the Hobbits grew hysterical with emotion, trying to get to the edge of the chasm, only to be pulled back by either Legolas or Celemîr, screaming and crying for their beloved friend. They left Aragorn behind, dodging the black arrows that were being shot by the orcs on the other side of the chamber, unobstructed by the fire demon. Gimli led the group up a set of steps, shouting for them to follow him, to stay light and fast,

“ARAGORN!” Celemîr shrieked, clutching Pippin to her chest and pulling Merry along behind her, “WE MUST GO!” at the sound of her voice, he turned and ran after her, darting to the front of the Fellowship with his sword raised and his teeth bared.

After spending three nights and three days in the pitch black, it was a nasty surprise to emerge into direct sunlight, the white beams blinding them all. They had spilled out on to a gentle slope, white rock leading down into a thin forest and further on to a frothing blue river. Merry launched out of Celemîr’s arms and curled up in Pippin’s lap, weeping sorrowfully, clawing at his throat as if his collar was too tight. Gimli was demanding they return to the mountain, to try and see if they could save Gandalf, but Boromir held him fast, hushing him with gentle yet firm words. The elf stood above them all, watching them grieve with a puzzled look on his face, as if he had never seen anyone cry for someone they had lost. Celemîr knew that if an elf was lost, they would sing or bless them, celebrate their passing to the Eldar so she understood his perplexed expressions, him not grasping the entire concept of raw emotion. She sat near him, tears rolling down her cheeks, hissing when they fell on to the back of her hands,

“Legolas,” Aragorn was cleaning his sword, “Get them up,” the elf nodded and crouched next to Celemîr, stroking her shoulder gently before lifting her by the arm,

“ _We must continue onwards_ ,” he told her sincerely, trying to comfort her and she sighed dejectedly,

“ _I know_ ,” Legolas left her to console Gimli and Boromir strode up to Aragorn with rage flitting across his features,

“Give them a moment for pity’s sake!” he spat, balling his hands into fists but Celemîr could see his eyes turn glassy when Aragorn turned on him,

“By nightfall, these hills will be swarming with orcs!” he seethed, “We must reach the Woods of Lothlorien!” Celemîr could not bring herself to aid them in getting the Hobbits on their feet, standing with her head bowed and her arms wrapped around her torso in a feeble attempt to comfort herself. Gandalf was a brother more than a friend, aiding her in pursuing her paths and teaching her the ways of magic, leading her to the light but he fell into darkness and she could not help him. It was unknown whether he could return to them, whether his soul would come back as it once was.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After they leave Lothlorien, when the Uruk Hai are attacking

She could do nothing to help, nothing to answer the horn of Gondor. Celemîr was preoccupied with her own battle, slaying orcs taller than Men with a seemingly unlimited amount of weapons, throwing themselves at her with foul insults and snarls. Both her palms had blisters from using her sword, having been caught tending to it, and her skin burned like the sun. She could not risk fire in these woods; the ground was dry and the trees were old, a mere spark would send the entire area up in flames.

The horn sounded again, distracting her for a small moment and Celemîr cried out when a blade sliced her bicep. It melted beneath her gaze and its wielder found his torso sliced in half with a single blow from her sword. She tried to run forward, aiming to aid the blower but the orcs still advanced, louder and more determined than before. They were strong and when weapons clashed, the impact sent Celemîr sprawling backwards. She did not want to abandon her ally; it was not right, not true. Her muscles were tiring, cramping painfully when she slid on to her knees and slashed at the legs of the enemy.

A third time the horn rang out, loud and shrill before being cut off with an echoing roar. Celemîr felt her chest constrict with fear for Boromir, leaping to her feet and fighting almost hysterically, thrusting her sword into chests and necks, blocking terrible blows and punching their stomachs with a fist made of fire.

There was an earth shattering cry, shaking the ground and rustling the leaves. The orcs about to attack her turned on their heels and began to run south. Celemîr did not care to follow them, throwing her weapon down and sprinting up the bank, past bodies covered in black blood, past fallen trees and broken arrows.

“No,” she refused Legolas’ outstretched arms and fell to her knees next to Aragorn, who was holding Boromir. The guard of Gondor was deathly pale and had three long black arrows embedded in his chest, blood falling from his lips with every heaving breath he took, “Boromir,” Celemîr found that she was crying, touching his arm, his chest, his neck and then his lips, “I can heal you, wait – let me heal!” she delved into the pocket of her overcoat and pulled out a fistful of herbs, setting them aflame with a flick of her wrist, “Hold still, please you must let me help you!”

Boromir closed his hand over hers, not caring for the fire and he gasped out, “You were always my Queen,” her mouth opened in horror at his admission and he went limp, his hand dropping to the ground. Aragorn gripped her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her but she shook him away, furrowing her brows and continuing to rub her fists together, the fire spreading,

“He is at peace,” he told her sadly, “There is nothing you can do,”

“Yes there is! He will live!” Celemîr grew hysterical, her whole body beginning to tremble, “I can heal him! He must live!” her cries echoed through the woods as she fell against Boromir, clutching his chest and running her fingers against his closed eyes. Legolas nearly began to weep himself, just from the sound of her breaking apart. He did not know that a creature of her power and wisdom could feel such sadness or remorse. Celemîr was pulled back by Aragorn and he cradled her like a child, hushing her with gentle elvish words, kissing and stroking her hair. She wept and wept and wept, her tears healing the wound on her shoulder and on his chest, cleaning the blood from their clothes and skin. It took a few heart wrenching moments for her to calm, her sorrow changing from sobs to small, heavy gasps,

“We must – the boats,” Aragorn understood her incoherent hiccups, “It’s what he deserves,”

Legolas and Aragorn carried the body between them down to the riverbank, placing him in one of the empty boats. Celemîr wrapped him in the elven cloak gifted to him not two days ago and placed his sword and shield upon his chest, cleaning his face of the mud and grime of his hard fought battle. She bent over Boromir and kissed his eyelids, the touch sending a tiny spark over his body, renewing him and making it seem as though he was only sleeping. Blood coloured his cheeks and his hair regained its softness, even if it was for a brief moment. It only made Celemîr cry again, standing waist deep in the river, watching the boat drift away to the waterfalls of Anduin.


	6. Chapter 6

They followed Aragorn through forests and over moors, wading through wild rivers and hopping from ledges, blindly obeying each command he called out, pointing to the North and then to the West, switching courses and then doubling back. Gimli struggled to keep up, his stout legs and his heavy boots preventing him from running as fast as the elf could but Legolas always stayed behind Aragorn, unless he was asked to scout up on a high rock for the path they were to follow. Celemîr was not as short as the dwarf and her thighs burned as they charged up a hill, darting in between tors and battling against grey winds, her pants getting carried away over the wild plains of Rohan.

They stopped at a high point, the landscape panning out beneath them like a stormy sea; the grasses and mosses rippling in the breeze like waves and the tors reflected white in the sunlight, like foam being blown off the tide.Celemîr admired the Great Plains before her, no sign of habitation for miles and to the East she could see a dark shadow, trees moving like a huge mass of people, coiling around each other, clashing and pushing but advancing in perfect synchronisation. The vastness of the land made her chest throb and she so dearly wished to be with her horse, skimming the ground and racing through the skies, the wind biting her cheeks and the sun caressing her shoulders. She could feel the beating of hooves now, rumbling the ground beneath her feet and her eyes snapped open when she realised that it was not her imagination,

“Celemîr, come,” Aragorn was calling for her and she took his hand, letting him guide her around a tor to where Gimli and Legolas were already waiting. They seemed to have only just avoided being trampled by a company of horses and their riders, numbering almost at five hundred, each of them wearing an emerald green cloak that caught the wind as they raced down on to the plains. Celemîr watched them pass, holding her breath and clutching her chest because the sound was immense; hooves beating the ground like drums sounding in her ears, horses screaming and men panting like they were running from an unspoken evil. It was almost suffocating and Celemîr was glad when Aragorn led the three of them away from the riders, emerging between two tall rocks and skidding down the grassy slope, holding his hands up to his mouth,

“RIDERS OF ROHAN!” he bellowed, “WHAT NEWS FROM THE MARK?” and the riders responded immediately, their leader thrusting his fist into the air and guiding his horse sharply back towards them. What was left of the Fellowship was rendered speechless as they were surrounded within seconds, horses bigger than they had ever seen circling them with even larger riders holding golden tipped spears. Gimli, Legolas and Celemîr backed up against each other, leaving Aragorn exposed but he did not seem concerned at the sharp points aimed at his throat, holding his hands up as a sign of respect. The riders stopped suddenly, horses kicking at the ground and puffing out great sighs as they were urged even closer to the four strangers, the men atop them lifting their weapons and pointing them towards the Fellowship,

“What business does a man, two elves and a dwarf have in the Riddermark?” one rider pushed forward, wearing more elegant armour than all the others, sun bleached hair spilling out from beneath a helmet that had grand horses moulded on to it. His leathers were a deep crimson and chainmail strained across his shoulders, a cloak of blinding green falling down his back, “Speak quickly!” his voice was deep and commanding. Gimli let out a polite cough and puffed out his chest,

“Your real name, horse master and I shall give you mine,” the ground trembled as the man dropped down from his horse, standing at a height taller than Aragorn and he scoffed at the dwarf,

“I would cut off your head dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground,” the reaction was instantaneous; Legolas drew his bow and pointed it at the rider’s chest, the rest of the company lurching forwards with their spears, the sharp points a hairs breadth away from the elf’s skin,

“You would die before your stroke fell,” Legolas hissed and Celemîr was quick grab the arrow, forcing it out of the horse master’s face,

“ _Calm, Legolas_ ,” she reasoned with him impatiently, “ _Do not fight a war where there is none_ ,” her voice dug into his chest and sent a spark of heat through his bones. Gimli let out an audible sigh of relief and Celemîr dipped her head as Aragorn stepped closer to the rider,

“I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” he waved at the Fellowship, “This is Gimli, son of Gloin; Legolas of the woodland realm and Celemîr, daughter of the white lady,” several men sucked in a breath at the mention of Galadriel and several spears raised out of respect, but the horse master only dipped his head, “We are friends of Rohan, and of Théoden your king,”

The horse master took off his helmet and handed it to another, letting his eyes fall on each of them before settling on Celemîr, “Théoden no longer recognises friend from foe – not even his own kin,” Aragorn moved closer to him, listening to his speech on the woes of the king and of Saruman corrupting the Wildermen who lived on the plains. His blazing hazel eyes did not leave Celemîr for more than a few seconds and neither did Gimli’s, watching the two with sour a look and a furrowed brow,

“We are no spies,” Aragorn commented, “We track a party of Uruk-Hai westward across the plain,”

Celemîr stepped up to the horse master, “They have our friends,” she spoke gently, “Two Hobbits,”

“The Uruks are destroyed,” the rider bowed his head in sorrow, “We slaughtered them during the night,”

Celemîr could not stand to listen any longer, turning away with a groan and scrunching her eyes shut. Pippin and Merry were only young, granting her the naivety and innocence she wished so dearly for; and now there was the fear that they were only ash blowing away in the wind. Someone touched her hand and a long shadow fell over her,

“I am sorry to bring such ill news,” he said, his voice rattling her insides and causing her stomach to tighten,

She smiled stiffly, “There is still hope, my lord,” the riders around them dispersed and a breeze swept between the two, warmed from the contact they held, “Hobbits are hardy folk, I hope they live to see another morning such as this,” there was a pause and Celemîr became painfully aware of her companions pretending not to listen in on their conversation, and the rest of the riders busying themselves with their armour or tending to their horses. The man cleared his throat and whistled sharply, pointing through his company,

“Hasufel, Arod,” two horses trotted forward of their own accord and Celemîr was struck with a pang of grief, suddenly mourning her own horse back in the safe haven that was Imladris. He took the reins and handed them over to Legolas and Aragorn, “May these horses bare you good fortune,” he nodded to them before turning fully to Celemîr,

“She’ll ride with me,” Aragorn assured the horse master, “Do not worry my Lord Éomer, she is in safe hands,” Éomer nodded and touched Celemîr’s shoulder,

“We will meet again, my lady,” he lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles gently, the scruff on his cheeks scratching her skin, “I make that a promise,”

“Of – of course,” Celemîr felt helpless next to him, not knowing what to say or how to react to his affections. She watched on as Éomer gracefully swung himself on to his horse and put the golden helmet on his head,

“We ride north!” his voice carried out across the group and horses reared at the command, men calling out in a battle-like fashion before charging off after their leader. Aragorn climbed up onto Hasufel, extending a hand to Celemîr and winking at her when he noticed the faintest pink blossoming across her cheeks,

“I fear you have captured the affections of a horse lord,” he told her as she settled behind him, making sure her sword and quiver were securely attached to the saddle. Celemîr grumbled inaudibly in response. Gimli burst into laughter from Legolas’ back,

“He looked ready to ravish you lass!” his words were lewd, resulting in spluttering from Celemîr, cackling from Aragorn and a deep hiss from Legolas, “He couldn’t keep his eyes off you,”

“Stop with your crude comments!” Celemîr hid her flushed cheeks in Aragorn’s back, “I must put our meeting behind – we have a task already in hand,” the atmosphere suddenly became too heavy, weighing down on their shoulders and their faces fell at the reminder. The sky seemed to grow grey, clouds blocking out the sun and a ghastly wind whipped up their clothes,

“She’s right,” the light hearted warmth radiating from Aragorn not two minutes ago had vanished, replaced with a hardness that was only seen in rangers who had wandered the country alone for months on end. His brow furrowed and he seemed to age ten years, “Come on,” and suddenly they were riding, faster than any horse bred outside of Rohan, hooves barely touching the ground and making no noise.

 

Celemîr could see the smoke rising over the horizon, where Éomer had claimed he and his company had slain the Uruk-Hai during the night. She dreaded what they would find, whether the pile of carcasses would include those of her friends, or whether they had already been killed by the orcs. The smoke turned white as they approached the edge of the forest, signalling the dampening of the fire and the lessening of the heat, yet the stench still remained. The horses whined and would not go any closer, stopping a few yards away and Aragorn lifted her down, giving her a hard look,

“You are the only one who can take the heat,” she already knew that she was to be the one to dig through the embers, the smouldering limbs and dusty heads. Legolas watched her delve through the bodies with a grimace, turning his nose up at the smell of charred flesh; he wondered how she could stand it. Hands and heads rolled on to her lap and ash caked her beneath her nails, turning her fingers black.

“Oh,” Celemîr let out a deflated gasp, sitting back on her heels, clutching something tight in her fists, “It’s – it is one of their belts,” the sword sheath and silver buckle still shone in the morning sun, the leather was a little disfigured from the heat but it was plain to see; the object had belonged to one of the Hobbits.

Aragorn let out a gut wrenching cry, falling to his knees in sorrow and Legolas had to turn away, muttering to himself in Elvish. Gimli stood next to Celemîr and he rested a hand on her shoulder,

“We failed them,” he choked out and bowed his head, but Celemîr was watching Aragorn, watching him sift through the dirt and grass, tracing his fingers over the ground,

“A Hobbit lay here,” he whispered, “and the other,” he shuffled forwards, continuing to feel the ground with his hands, “They crawled, their hands were bound,” Aragorn stood up and held out a small rope, rotten and green with moss, “Their bonds were cut,” Gimli rushed up next to him, prompting Legolas and Celemîr to follow, watching his every move, listening to his every word. It was wondrous how he read the ground, how he could see where they ran and where they ran to, followed by a creature of foul intent,

“Fangorn Forest,” the tracks led into the trees, “What madness drove them in there?” Gimli shuddered at the sight of it; at the silken vines that hung from branches, at the thick trunks riddled with mosses and fungi, at the very air that filtered through the leaves that looked as though they had been growing for an age. Legolas was the first to enter the forest, gazing around at the limbs that reached out at them like fingers, treading carefully over the grass and the flowers that grew in colourful patches wherever the sun shone. Celemîr followed and felt the hairs on her arms stand up as soon as she was sheathed in shadow, an energy rippling over her skin such as she had not felt in a very long time. Aragorn stayed at her side, but he continued search the ground, brushing past bushes dripping with a dark substance.

Gimli touched a leaf and brought the fluid to his nose, “Orc blood,” he spat and Aragorn’s face darkened, a strange groan echoing through the trees around them. It was haunting, a conversation only heard by the oldest of ears, understood only by the beings to which the voices belonged to,

“The trees are speaking to each other,” Legolas said and the groaning got louder, the trees swaying in an invisible wind, their bark creaking and their branches gesturing as if conjuring some spell,

“Gimli,” Celemîr took the dwarf’s weapon, “Do not threaten them,” he turned pale but lowered his axe, “These are creatures older than the elves, they are wise and just,”

“They’re trees,” he was not convinced but raised his palms in respect anyway, looking around sheepishly. Legolas suddenly grew very still, pulling an arrow from his quiver

“The white wizard approaches,” he muttered and Gimli stood in front of Celemîr, as if his body would protect hers,

“He will not claim you,” he told her, brandishing his axe with a menacing look on his face. Aragorn pulled out his sword and motioned for Celemîr to do the same,

“Do not let him speak, he will put a spell on us,” his voice was low and threatening, “We must be quick,” Celemîr felt a heat on the back of her neck and their shadows suddenly grew longer, a bright light appearing behind them.

As soon as they turned, Legolas shot an arrow and Gimli threw his axe. Both were knocked to the side by the light, like they were merely flies on a hot day. Aragorn’s sword glowed orange and he dropped it with a shout, tucking his palm into his chest and turning away from the light with closed eyes.

Celemîr threw her own weapon down and waved her hands, sending a ball of fire towards the figure that had emerged from the light. She was not expecting it to turn white as it approached the person, and she was definitely not expecting it to come racing back towards her; hotter and more blinding than anything she had ever produced. With a cry and a jolt, the fire vanished at her outstretched fingers, but the white light continued to impair their vision,

“You are tracking the footsteps of two young Hobbits,” a voice flowed to their ears, soft but commanding, “They passed this way, day before yesterday,”

Aragorn stepped forward, “Who are you? Show yourself!”

A man stepped in front of the light, his robes glowing brightly and his hair shining like fallen snow,

“You cannot be him,” Celemîr dropped to her knees in shock, resting her palms on her thighs and bowing her head,

“I mistook you for Saruman,” Legolas copied her, as did Gimli but Aragorn walked closer to the elderly man,

“You fell,” he whispered, almost broken with emotion and the man leant on his pale staff with a small smile. He told them of his battle, defeating the Balrog and descending into darkness, drifting through time and space before the Eldar decided it was right for him to return,

“I have come to complete my mission,” Celemîr could not believe her eyes, standing up and retrieving her sword from the ground,

“Gandalf,” was all she could say, reaching out to touch the hand that was wrapped around the staff,

“Yes, Gandalf the Grey; that was what they used to call me,” he gripped her shoulder, “I am Gandalf the White, and I come back to you at the turn of the tide,” the smile she knew as a child returned to him and Gimli let out a relieved laugh, clutching his belly and thanking the Eldar for Gandalf’s return.

 

 

The wizard told them that war was waging on Rohan and that they needed to ride to aid the Men of the Wilderland. As they trekked through the ancient forest, he told them of the whereabouts of the Hobbits,

“They are in the company of the Ents,” he explained to their utter amazement, “And they are safer then you will ever be because something will happen that has not occurred since the first age…the Ents will march and they are strong,”

Celemîr had heard tales of the tree-herders, guardians of the forest that only showed themselves when they deemed fit. Lothlorien had them, but even in the deepest and darkest parts they did not stir for there was no need; the elves protected the woods and kept them pure. The Ents in Mirkwood were so old that many of them did not remember how to walk and talk, they did not even groan in the night, growing thicker and larger than any other tree in Middle-Earth. The trees they passed now were bustling with activity, curling their leaves and twisting their roots, growling menacingly when Gimli raised his axe to a branch that tugged on his cloak. But they did not grow thinner like other forests, fanning out across the land until only bushes could be named; when they emerged from the tree line, there was nothing. The growing just halted, as if the soil was no longer fertile enough to support the trees, as if there was a boundary prevented anything from living. The ground stretched out over sun bleached grass lands and Gandalf stepped forward, pursing his lips and whistling loudly. It was a simple tune, shrill and demanding; and it was answered by a distant whinny. From a dip in the land came a horse, so white and strong that Celemîr felt powerless beneath its gaze. Gandalf smiled as it approached, sailing towards him with thunderous gallops and shallow pants,

“Shadowfax,” he touched its neck, “The lord of all horses, and he has been my friend through many dangers,” Gandalf swung himself up on to the back of the white stallion and made himself comfortable. Shadowfax made a small noise and tossed his head back in the direction he had come, showing them two other horses that were swiftly making their way over to them.

Celemîr ran out to meet the chestnut mare, “Hasufel!” she cooed, pressing her face into its shoulder and Aragorn put his hands on her hips, hoisting her up on to the saddle with almost no exertion. This time, he placed himself behind her, tucking himself close into her back with his arms encircling her in order to hold the reins,

“This is humiliating,” Celemîr grumbled, “I feel like a child,” Aragorn chuckled, urging the horse into a gentle trot, following Gandalf,

“Do not let Gimli hear you say that,” he told her, gesturing to his left and she craned her head, spotting that the dwarf was in a similar position to her except he looked far more disgruntled with the arrangement. Aragorn kicked Hasufel into a gallop and suddenly they were off, journeying across Rohan to the great city of the Horse Lords.

 

The ride to Edoras was shortened considerably by how fast Shadowfax flew, sailing over the moors and plains, his tailwind causing Hasufel and Arod to quicken their pace like Celemîr had never seen. Aragorn’s arms encircled her and held the reins tightly, his head knocking into hers every so often but the warmth of his chest behind her was calming and familiar, something she missed dearly with the elves. Although quick, the journey was uncomfortable; they were hungry, bruised, thirsty and still struggling to get over the immaculate return of Gandalf. He rode in front, his white robes shining in the sun, his staff held up by his side through wind and river, casting a soft glow during the nights they travelled in. The landscape grew haggard with every league they covered; huge mountains stepping out of the grassy tundra, tors being swallowed by great chasms carved by rivers and lakes. They were entering the Wilderland, rocks jutting out beneath them, tumuli dotting the grey plains as far as the eye could see, a land full of war and with a history spanning hundreds of lifetimes. Celemîr felt a root forming within her soul, tendrils wrapping around each strand of her heart, leading to the very ground upon which she rode. She felt it when Éomer touched her, kissed her hand; she felt it when they entered Fangorn Forest, when Gandalf told them of the Ents and of Isengard; it was a fierce claiming of the land. It wrapped her in its past, present and future, and was not letting go. It was a path she was not expecting to take.

She felt the root take a further hold when Edoras loomed over her. The city was spread over a huge rise in the land, houses and taverns were perched precariously on rocky outlets, with a huge hall sat right at the top, higher than any other building in the city. There were flags waving in every space, golden, silver and bronze horses waving in the wind like a declaration of what was right and all-good. Celemîr could see people walking through the streets with furs covering their shoulders; some led horses up towards a large courtyard lined with hundreds of stables, and some held baskets of grass or corn or hay, or fabric. Her vision was suddenly obscured by a grand wooden and stone gate, flanked by walls taller than she could measure, with spikes and guards wielding golden tipped spears or bows. The gate had an ancient language carved into the wood but Celemîr had no chance to decipher it, for the opened smoothly when Gandalf called up to the guards. The streets flashed past her in a flurry of browns and greens, the city stretching out above them like a delicately painted map as they climbed higher and higher, the horses panting and whining with the effort it took to gallop up such a steep rise. Celemîr clutched the reins tighter; afraid she would fall off the saddle and tumble back down the hill.

“You’d find more cheer in a graveyard,” she heard Gimli comment and she felt Hasufel slow to stop, padding the ground and pouring with sweat,

“If the tales of the king are true,” she dropped down next to him, “I would expect more in the Dead Mountains,” Gimli scowled at her and they followed Gandalf up a wide and steep set of stone steps, leading to a magnificent hall adorned with gold and bronze plates that shone in the afternoon sun. There were smaller chambers built on to the side, some even hung off the precipice that the hall stood on, but they all had slatted windows and sturdy wooden beams to keep them strong even in the worst of storms. Guards were lined up outside, facing out with their arms behind their back and each had long swords sheathed at their hips. Celemîr turned and let her eyes drink the view in; from where she was stood, she could see all the way down to the River Isen and the dark mass that was Fangorn Forest, gentle rises and sharp tors pierced the landscape but she only sighed at the comfort it provided her. She had only felt it in Lothlorien, the calmness and tranquillity; it was mesmerising how a place she had never visited before could have such a profound effect on her very being,

“Ah,” Gandalf’s sound of defeat caused her to return to the matter at hand, and she found herself face to face with several shining swords,

“You bring us the Naur Dulin unbound?” one growled, wearing a cape of similar green to Éomer, but his armour was not as elaborate, there was no bronze horse on his chest, no red leathers, no gold helmet; only a face of annoyance, “I cannot allow her before Théoden King without chains, nor you Gandalf Greyhame so armed,”

Celemîr’s struggle was paused by the side glance Gandalf sent her, “On whose orders?” she asked, allowing two men to chain her wrists and ankles together,

“Grima Wormtongue,” she didn’t recognise the name but detested him all the same, severely offended that her claimed ally would have her shackled like a wild beast. Gandalf was given right to keep his staff, sending Aragorn a sly wink as they entered the hall. A guard had hold of her chains and was leading her forward, taking care to twist the cuffs so her wrists were rubbed raw by the time they stopped just before a throne. Sat upon it was a frail old man, skin grey, eyes clouded, jewellery hanging off his body like luxurious bonds, rings dangling from his bone thin fingers and he seemed to be swimming in his grey furs. The creature next to him was the same; thin, grey and small, with greasy hair and beady eyes that made Celemîr’s skin crawl when he looked at her. He was clothed in black woollen robes and had the ring of the King’s Hand on his skeletal thumb. The creature whispered something into the King’s ear and she caught side of a black, forked tongue, running along his teeth when he smiled into the King’s arm,

“Why should I welcome you Gandalf Stormcrow?” Théoden’s voice was remarkably strong for a man of his circumstance, echoing round the chamber, dislodging dust in the rafters. The forked tongue creature stood up with a grave face,

“A just question my liege,” it hurt to hear his voice, crawling all over her skin like a cold fog on a deathly black night. Celemîr resented this foul thing, gripping her shackles as he insulted Gandalf,

“Be silent, keep your forked tongue behind your teeth!” the wizard spat, rather boldly and he stepped away from Aragorn, placing his staff more firmly on the stone floor,

“His staff!” Grima Wormtongue snapped at the guards, “I told you to take the wizard’s staff!”

Celemîr was yanked forward by her guard but the shackles turned to liquid, molten metal falling from her wrists and she head-butted the man, sending him sprawling to the floor. Several others barrelled towards her but she fought them off with her bare hands, punching and jabbing at the gaps of their armour, disabling them honourably. Gandalf held his staff up to Théoden, the crystal at the end glowing bright as he advanced on the king.

Grima Wormtongue backed away from the white staff as if it was emitting a foul odour he could not bear to smell, tripping over a fallen guard and landing at Celemîr’s feet,

“Move and I take your eyes,” she threatened in a dark voice, pointing a fiery dagger at his face, holding one hand on his neck and digging her knees into his ribs. Her gaze switched to Théoden, watching his once shadowed face erupt into malicious glee, his mouth sending out a high pitched cackle. Gandalf thrust his staff forward, and Théoden’s body slammed back into his throne,

“I will draw you Saruman, as poison is drawn from a wound,” Gandalf waved his staff again as he spoke, and the king growled,

“If I go, Théoden dies,” he said and Celemîr felt Grima squirm beneath her, craning his head to look at the woman who had thrown herself into the chamber with a shriek. Aragorn caught her and spoke gently, pressing his forehead into her hair, clutching her tightly to his chest. She was a beautiful woman, no older than nineteen, with curly golden hair and wide, golden eyes, similar to some she had seen before.

Grima hissed as her thighs tightened against his waist,

“Your thoughts are foul,” she spoke through gritted teeth and the dagger grew hotter, “How dare you even look at her,” the point inched dangerously close to his forehead and he began to squeal in pain, “You are nothing but a shadow hoping for the sun, who will never stoop so low,” his hands clawed at her arms and his legs flailed around, attempting to get her off him, and to stop her from digging the dagger into his skin.

It was Gandalf, who stopped her from driving the blade through Grima’s head, thrusting his staff at Théoden, sending the possessed king flying backwards into his throne for the last time. There was silence as the young woman sprinted across the hall, falling to her knees beside the king and catching him as he keeled over with a moan,

“I know your face,” his voice was softer, warmer and Celemîr saw that he grew younger; his skin brightened, his hair caught the sun and shone, and he filled his robes like a fit king should. He raised a hand to the woman, cupping her rounded cheek gently, “Éowyn?”

“Breathe the free air again my friend,” Gandalf smiled and leant on his staff, waving his fingers at Celemîr and she scowled momentarily, the dagger disappearing from her hand like smoke blowing away in the wind. Her grip on Grima’s throat hastened and she stood up gracefully, smoothing out her overcoat before moving to stand next to Legolas with her hands folded across her chest. She watched as Théoden was handed his sword, and suddenly, she felt small again; like she did when Éomer stood next to her. Théoden was a king to behold, unsheathing a mighty longsword made of silver and gold, whirling through the air like he was readying for war. Then he turned to Grima, who was cowering in a corner and he snarled menacingly, launching himself at the quivering creature.


	7. Chapter 7

Guards dove out of the way as Grima was thrown down the stone steps, rolling over and over as Théoden followed with a curled lip and his sword held in an iron grip,

“Your witchcraft would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast!” he bellowed, waving his sword, readying to strike. Celemîr stayed back with Éowyn, watching from the doors of the great hall, gripping her hand. They watched blood drip from his mouth as he pleaded with the king, begging on his knees for his life,

“Send me not from your sight,” he wept, but there were no tears in his eyes and Celemîr felt the princess bristle beside her when the king raised his mighty sword, roaring like he was charging into battle.

“My lord, no!” Aragorn had the gift of being in the right place at the right time, and he wrestled the sword from Théoden’s hands, “Enough blood has been spilt on his account,”

Celemîr watched with burning eyes as Grima Wormtongue forced his way through the crowds, running down through the city and out of the gate. Éowyn breathed a sigh of relief beside her,

“He was poison, seeping from the wounds of my father,” she said, “Now we are free,” Celemîr smiled kindly but suddenly dropped to one knee, upon seeing the rest of the court bowing to their king. It was only respect, and submissiveness that prompted her to copy the actions of the people, praising Théoden as if he ruled over her. He turned towards the Golden Hall with pale lips,

“Where is my son?” he asked, his throat raw and dry from shouting at the betrayer. Éowyn let out a choked gasp and tears spilled down her cheeks, the sun shining on her and turning them into glittering diamonds. Although she was distraught, Celemîr thought she looked beautiful and had to force herself to turn away, ducking back into the Hall and alerting Legolas of what was occurring outside.

Aragorn felt it necessary to attend Théodred’s burial, following the procession behind the King and his niece. Celemîr was given a black dress, as respect to the dead and to the mourning, and she walked alongside Éowyn, holding her arm and guiding her through the streets with a gentleness seen only from a mother. The crown prince was laid to rest in the tombs at the far end of the city, outside the walls and in the shadow of the mountains, the cairn sealed with a large slab of stone and decorated with delicate white flowers. Éowyn began to sing breathlessly, the silence suddenly becoming too much for her and Celemîr left her in the company of her handmaidens, joining Legolas and Gimli when the crowds began to disperse back into the city,

“It is a dreadful thing to have to bury your own child,” she said when the three returned to the Golden Hall sitting around a table and being instantly handed plates of food and flagons of ale, “No one should have to bear that,”

“Aye,” Gimli drank deeply to the crown prince, alcohol flooding down his beard, “I cannot imagine building a tomb for my laddie,” Legolas looked down at his lap,

“Laying to rest any one you love is a burden I wish on no such creature,” his voice was low and drowned with sorrow, and Gimli sent Celemîr a dark look for neither of them had seen the elf show such intense emotion before; it was rather concerning. They didn’t know what to say, how to react to his comment, watching him pick through the plate of bread in front of him,

“Legolas - ,” Celemîr stood and reached out for him, but was interrupted by the doors to the hall swinging open and Aragorn burst in, holding a young boy with matted hair,

“Celemîr! This is beyond me,” behind him rushed Éowyn and Théoden, both wearing equally concerned expressions, “he is cold,” she felt the boy’s forehead and then his chest, her eyes flickering to Aragorn’s and she instructed him to lay the boy on a nearby bench,

“We need furs,” Éowyn declared and made to retrieve some, hurrying away across the hall,

“No we don’t lass,” Gimli took a large gulp of his ale and called for some more, ignoring the princess’ incredulous look,

“But he will die!” she countered angrily and Gimli thrust his flagon behind him, gesturing to where Celemîr was working delicately, “What is this?” Éowyn stood behind Aragorn who cast his gaze upwards,

“The combined skills of an elf and of the _Naur Dulin_ ,” he spoke quietly, as to not disturb Celemîr, watching her conjure a small white flame and rub it between her palms like an oil, “None can match her abilities,”

Théoden sat on his throne, leaning forward with eyes so wide one could see the healing flame reflected in them. The _Naur Dulin_ was only a legend in his land; stories of her ancestors were written in the records kept in the levels below the city, in books with yellowing pages, in an ancient language that had not been spoken for many generations. He had heard tale of her creation and of her relation to Mordor and to the One Ring, to the Dark Lord himself; he never in all his life thought he would see her in the flesh and witness her healing someone. Théoden could hear her speaking gentle elvish to the child, smoothing the white flame over their chest and belly, waving her palms over their body with curiously bright eyes.

The boy awoke with a small gasp, blinking against the harsh light and reaching out blindly, touching Celemîr’s face with muddy fingers,

“Mamma?” he asked, cupping her cheeks and she looked up at Aragorn in despair, not understanding what to say,

“I’m afraid not,” she replied carefully, taking his hands in hers and squeezing them in comfort, “Where did you come from?” a little girl stood next to Éowyn and she burst into tears,

“The men came!” she howled, “They had swords and torches! Mamma told us to run! She told us not to look back!” Éowyn picked the girl up and cradled her, stroking away the tears, hushing her with sweet words, all while looking up at her father with eyes full of fear.

Théoden sank his head into his hands and sighed,

“They had no warning,” the two children were being fed hot stew and had thick furs wrapped around them, Éowyn sitting next to the girl to keep her cheerful; it had taken a good while to console both children, “They were unarmed, and now the Wildermen are moving through the Westfold, burning as they go,” she explained, repeating all the boy had told her, “Rick, cot, and tree,”

The girl asked for her mother and Éowyn tugged the fur quilt tighter, wrapping her arm around the girl,

“This is but a taste of the terror Saruman will unleash,” Gandalf was stood next to Théoden, resting his arm on the back of the grand wooden throne, “All the more potent for he is driven mad by his fear of Sauron,”

Celemîr flinched at the name but gathered herself quickly, readjusting her skirts, “Ride out and meet him,” she said bravely, “You must fight,”

Théoden scoffed, “What do you know of battle? You are a pawn, a good luck charm,” he snipped and Gandalf suddenly straightened, his eyes narrowing at how the king was addressing Celemîr, “I cannot just send out my men, I will have no one to protect here,”

“You have two thousand good men riding north and Éomer is loyal to you, he will return and fight for his king,” she seemed to ignore Théoden’s comments but Gandalf saw how her eyes flickered with a dark fire,

“He will be three hundred leagues away by now, they cannot help us,” the king retaliated, reclining back into his seat, “I know what you ask of me but I cannot risk open war,”

“It is already upon you!” Celemîr strode closer to him, “You must fight!”

Théoden rose from the throne with a red face, “I cannot bring further death on my people,” he let out a snide chuckle, “You know nothing of death, of loss, of protecting anyone other than yourself!”

Celemîr’s eyes flashed and suddenly the ground Théoden was stood on erupted into flames, engulfing him bright and roaring. People screamed and began to run around in a panic but what was the left of the Fellowship remained where they were, all of them watching her proudly. Guards and kingsmen ran forward to help their leader, and some attempted to disarm Celemîr but the heat was too much. Théoden was not calling for help or crying in pain, he was admiring the flames that licked his skin and did not burn him,

“If you think I have not seen battle, you are mistaken,” Celemîr spoke, causing the people to fall still. Her voice was like lightning, striking every person in the hall, “I fought for Erebor, I fight the Dark Lord every single moment I breathe; I have lost friends, brothers!” her eyes turned glassy, reflecting the whirling fire storm before her, “I am never without a battle,” the flames died down slowly, melting away from Théoden like wax flowing down a candle, vanishing with a flick of her fingers. The king was left glowing, looking around himself in awe and he felt a new weight on his head, cool metal sitting rigidly against his skull. Celemîr had made him a new crown, one made of fire-forged gold that was intricately twisted to form short stems that pointed upwards. Some looked like antlers and some looked like the branches of a tree but either way, it was magnificent.

“Words fail me,” Théoden took the crown from his head and inspected it, finding that it seemed to be pulsing with some kind of energy,

“Then do not speak,” Gandalf stepped up to the king with a hard look in his eyes, “What is your decision; do you fight or flee?”

Théoden looked around the hall for a moment and bowed his head with a frown.

 

 

They were to make for Helm’s Deep, the famed fortress beneath the mountains that had saved the people of Rohan many times, protecting them from enemies with its high walls and strong gates. Celemîr had seen it once when she spread her wings century and a half ago, flying high over Gondor and the west, marvelling at the wide spaces of Rohan and the mountains. She did not know at the time that she would be so actively involved in defending them, riding with the king of Rohan and his people. It seemed that Théoden was embarrassed with the way he treated her, with the insults he spat at her in a brief moment of weakness; offering her a new cloak and extra supplies for the road. Celemîr had declined both and suggested he give it to someone in more dire need, seeing as Grima Wormtongue’s rule had cost much of the city; many of the people were thin and ill, with little to no furs and barely any decent food. She did all she could before they set out, warming the hands of children and helping distribute food to lonely mothers.

“It is time,” Aragorn had pulled her away from a young girl no older than sixteen and led her over to the stables, greeting Théoden King with a bow before readying his own horse. Théoden was wearing a handsome set of blue robes and the crown she had created for him, still shining brightly. He was strong for a father, lifting her like she weighed less than a feather, settling her gently on the back of Hasufel,

“I hope you well for the journey,” he said, walking to his own horse and swinging himself up, much like his kin, Éomer and Celemîr felt her chest suddenly tighten. Gandalf had set off on Shadowfax three days ago to find the Rohirrim and was intending to bring them back for a battle only he foresaw. It brought her joy to think she would be able to see Éomer again, to talk to him, to stand next to him. Meeting in battle was not ideal but in the dark times ahead, Celemîr relished in the very thought of being able to see his smile again.

Théoden led the city-folk out of Edoras, riding with Aragorn and his chief guard, Hama at his side. There were hundreds of people following, carrying only the bare essentials and talking among themselves about what the future brought.

“You ride well,” Éowyn was walking in between Celemîr and Gimli, both on horses and both struggling to keep their feet in the stirrups, “I hear elves have wonderful horses,” she mused dreamily and Celemîr grinned, patting Hasufel on the neck,

“None like these,” she replied, “The horses in Lorien are ceremonial and are tended to with the utmost care; they have seen too few battles to be called steeds – they are guides,” Gimli shrugged, “And we do not have nearly the numbers as Rohan does,”

“Oh!” Éowyn let out an excited chirp, “This is only a fraction! There are towns all over the Mark, and the Rohirrim number three thousand and forty!” Celemîr did not miss the sly look the dwarf sent her,

“And they were a sight to behold,” she muttered and quickly ducked her head when Gimli chuckled knowingly,

“As was their master,” he said and Éowyn cocked her head,

“I’d heard that you met my brother, is he well?” Celemîr refused to answer so Gimli leant forwards,

“He was,” he spoke with a grin, “Especially when he saw our young bird here,” Éowyn let out a gasp, covering her mouth, “Nearly tripped on himself to get to her,”

“It was not like that,” Celemîr scolded the dwarf, “He was humble and polite, and concerned for his king,”

“And dazzled by you!” Gimli continued gleefully, obviously finding tormenting her thoroughly entertaining, “Master Éomer could not take his eyes off you lassie! It’s true,” he added upon seeing Éowyn’s look of utter joy, “They made a promise to meet again,”

“How romantic,” Éowyn commented gaily, “I would be happy to call you my sister Celemîr,” the woman flushed scarlet and let out a flustered huff, kicking Hasufel into a trot, toward the front of the procession. Théoden was riding silently before his subjects, holding the reins with one hand and looking ahead with such intense concentration that Celemîr didn’t think he noticed her arrival,

“And I would be proud to name you my kin,” he spoke gently, causing her to stare at him with shock lining her face, “It is unheard of for a Lord of Rohan to wed an elf but I should hope to see it happen between Éomer and you – to have you as both an ally and a niece would be a gift,”

Celemîr swallowed, “Thank you,” she adjusted the pin on her cloak and blew into her hands to warm them against the chilly wind. They remained silent for the rest of the journey, sending slight smiles if they caught the other’s eye but they spoke no more of Éomer, focussing solely on arriving at Helm’s Deep intact. A few times they were forced to stop while Legolas scouted ahead for obstacles, only to come back with no such news,

“It is only a two day journey,” Aragorn took his turn riding while Celemîr walked beside him, “We should be there by noon,” their conversation was suddenly interrupted by two riders heading further afoot than the group, disappearing over a high rise in the ground. After a brief moment, Celemîr’s ears picked up terrified whinnying and the snapping jaws of a creature only found in Mordor.

Théoden reared his horse and shouted to Legolas, who had run toward the rise, “What is it? What do you see?”

“A warg!” the elf darted into action, shooting targets only he could see, “We are under attack!” he called back and Celemîr could hear the roars of the bear-like creatures that she hadn’t encountered for sixty years, advancing closer and closer to the group. Théoden rallied his riders and ordered Éowyn to continue to Helm’s Deep with the refugees, something she apparently did not want to do; the young woman wanted to fight,

“Your time will come,” Celemîr clutched her arm and helped her gather a group of children, “and when it does, we will ride together – but now you must be a beacon I cannot,” the princess nodded with thin lips and hard eyes, calling out for them to take to lower ground, to keep safe and quiet. Celemîr watched them go for a moment before turning to the battle, running forward with her bow ready, shooting the first evil shadow she saw; an orc sitting atop a grey warg. The wolfish creature fell with a cry and the orc spat at her, raising his weapon. A second arrow to lodged in his chest. Celemîr leapt over the body and observed the carnage, dodging swings and blows from the enemy, witnessing men fall and horses scream when they were hacked apart. Blood watered the grass, black and red for each side. Celemîr growled, thrusting the end of her bow into a passing warg’s throat and adding to the stains surrounding her feet. She saw Legolas trying to aid Gimli, lifting at least three bodies off the dwarf and hoisting him to his feet; Théoden was still atop his horse, brandishing his sword like he had not battled for an age; Aragorn had been knocked down and had a gaze on his temple, but was fighting like there was nothing to lose.

“C’mere my pretty,” a voice called and Celemîr grimaced, turning to face the oncoming enemy; it was a tall orc with tiny eyes and pointed teeth. It held a weapon with a serrated edge, pointing it at her, “Come lay your pretty neck on -,”

His head was rolling across the ground before he could finish, Celemîr’s sword dripping with black blood and she kicked the body away. Horses and warg’s charged all around her, weaving in and around, all engaged in their own battles. She was at a disadvantage without a horse, standing several feet below everybody else, struggling to strike the enemy,

“I fear we are outnumbered,” Gimli huffed up to her, black fluid covering half his face, “The small ones seem to get no chance at battle,”

“I have killed a fair few,” Celemîr retaliated and just to prove herself, shot an arrow at an orc that was chasing Théoden, “But I agree,” Gimli laughed and launched himself back into the chaos with a roar, swinging his axe into the underbelly of any mutt that passed him. Celemîr was about to follow with a cry of her own but something caught her eye, something brown and moving fast towards the edge of a nearby cliff. It was a warg, smaller than the rest but no more foul and she saw someone hanging off its shoulder, being dragged along beside it, knocking into rocks and bodies. She only saw who was the creature’s victim when it leapt over the side of the cliff,

“ARAGORN!” her shriek echoed around the field, so high and piercing that orcs had to stop to cover their ears, which only resulted in their brutal death. It seemed her anguish had won the battle, the remaining wargs being chased down and slaughtered by riders wielding long spears.

“Celemîr, where is he?” Legolas bounded up to her, not a hair out of place, “What happened?”

He held her shoulders and she sank to the ground, “It is a hundred foot drop, he would never have survived,” the elf’s eyes widened at her confession and at the blankness held behind her eyes. Legolas left her, running over to the only orc still breathing, the one who had Gimli’s axe held to his neck, the one who cackled when Legolas asked where his friend was,

“Took a little tumble off the cliff,” and the laughing ceased, something all who stood near was glad of. Celemîr remained where she was, kneeling helplessly in the blackened grass with her head bowed and her bow lain across her thighs. He was her friend, a guide through the darkest of times, a king who rallied them for battle and who led them through lands she did not even knew existed. She refused to believe Aragorn was dead - absolutely putting her foot down and shaking her head. There was a deep river at the bottom of the ravine, maybe he had fallen and gotten swept away by the current, too fast for anyone to be able to save him. Maybe he was only unconscious, laying on a bank not far away, waiting for someone to help him or waiting for his strength to be regained. Maybe he was on his way back to them, clambering over rocks with his sword still in hand …

“My lady,” someone stood in front of her, “We must leave now,” the soldier had a bandage on his forehead but he smiled kindly at her, handing her the reins of Hasufel, “It is only a few hours till we get to Helm’s Deep,”

Celemîr fell into formation behind Legolas and Gimli, urging her horse to keep up with the others, staying in line as accurately as any of the Rohirrim. There seemed to be less than two hundred of them now and many were wounded, having to be supported by their companions or slung over horses like packs. It saddened her to leave the battle field, having not buried or burned any of those who fell for Rohan and she cursed herself for not doing it alone; her powers could have given them the funeral they deserved, turning them to a white ash that would simply blow away into the wind. She also cursed Aragorn because he was a fool, a fool to go for that warg and to think he could take it on without a bow or a spear. Although his sword was true and sharp, even she couldn’t take one down alone on foot and so she called him a fool for thinking he could win.

Celemîr’s mind remained restless, following the Rohirrim as they began to ascend up a steep path, climbing higher and higher until the ground levelled out, forming a ledge at which Legolas and Celemîr halted their horses. Before them lay the mountains of Ered Nimuras with jagged peaks and cloud shrouded summits, and the ground situated far below them was flat, bare and barren, with tiny rivulets trickling downwards to the River Isen. The only colours they could see was brown, grey and beige; the colours of a land that had suffered many battles. At the base of one of the mountains stood a magnificent stone structure, a wall measuring approximately one mile ran from one sheer edge of the mountain to the other, curving into an even larger fortress with many levels and layers. A raised causeway ran from the mud flats right up to the huge wood and iron wrought doors that opened upon Théoden’s call. The keep itself was a thing of marvel, hundreds of tunnels and corridors that all eventually led to the Hornburg; a grand hall situated within the deepest depths of the keep and was partially dug into the mountain, with a huge great tower upon which were four horns to sound when battle was upon them.

Celemîr rode through the keep, swerving and backtracking between impossibly high walls, dodging refugees who were scattered about the place; some weeping, some comforting each other, some injured and some already dead. The horse’s hooves were almost deafening, metal screeching against stone and echoing throughout the streets, causing many to shrink away from the riders. Legolas dropped from his horse as soon as it stopped, walking away into the Hornburg and leaving Gimli to make his own way to the ground. Celemîr pulled up and helped him down before handing the two horses over to a stable guard, noticing a flash of gold beside her,

“Éowyn,” the woman had mud on her face and a rip in her dress but was otherwise unhurt, and she ran to Celemîr’s open arms,

“I am glad to see you,” she felt tears wetting her shoulder, “I am sorry about Lord Aragorn,”

Celemîr pulled away sharply and her face grew stony, “Don’t apologise where there is no fault,” she dipped her head, “I believe he had not left us yet,”

“You hope is something we all envy,” Éowyn touched her hand and they looked at each other,

“It has kept me alive, and it will keep you alive too,” Celemîr explained, “believe that Aragorn will return my lady, that he will return to you,” tears began falling down Éowyn’s cheeks but she still managed to smile,

“Like you believe my brother will return for you?” she said sweetly and Celemîr flushed pink, but nodded all the same, “Then I hope for life,”

 

 

It was three days before there was any news of Aragorn, and it turned up in the strangest of ways. Celemîr was aiding the king in making plans for the future of Rohan, on where to put the women and children should battle be thrust upon them, how to defend the Deeping wall and the Hornburg. She was leaning over a map of Middle-Earth with a quill pressed against her lips while two of Théoden’s advisers were arguing loudly. Over the ruckus and the echoes came another voice, clear and strong. It was a voice she knew well speaking just outside the Hornburg and a familiar laugh tore right through her chest,

“Aragorn,” Celemîr dropped the quill, ignoring Théoden’s shouts and questions, “Aragorn!”

The doors burst open like they weighed nothing, her strength nearly splintering the wood and causing several people to cry out in fright. Legolas managed to step out of the way just in time, laughing as Celemîr threw herself into Aragorn’s arms, slinging her legs around his hips and burying her face into his neck,

“You fool,” she wept, “You absolute fool!” her tears soaked his overcoat but he only laughed, “Don’t you dare laugh! No, stop!” Celemîr clutched his shoulders tighter, “I saw you go over, the warg took you over,”

“Your kin kept me in the light,” Aragorn set her down and looked down into her tear stained face, “Your hope and hers gave me strength,” she knew he was speaking of Arwen, of the connection they had because of their undying love. She wondered if the she-elf was well, considering her father had plans for her to move into the West, “I must speak with Théoden,”

Celemîr pointed back to the Hornburg and Aragorn kissed the top of her head before darting away, the wound on his shoulder no longer bleeding or raw. Gimli returned to her side,

“He’s a lucky lad,” he spoke tiredly and Celemîr nodded, “lucky he’s alive,”


	8. Chapter 8

They would be arriving at sundown; thousands and thousands of orcs marching from Isengard to Helm’s Deep with the simple aim of wiping out Man,

“It is an army bred for a single purpose; to destroy the world of Men,” Aragorn informed Théoden gravely, “They will be here by nightfall,” the news didn’t surprise Celemîr who was standing against a stone pillar shrewd in shadow. She had already known it, she had already seen it. He came to her in a dream three nights ago, burning bright and deadly, staring past her at something she could not see; whispering and hissing at her, telling her things in a language only spoken by the evilest creatures, giving her orders that she could not complete. She could not turn away, letting the eye blaze right through her clothes and flesh, pulling at her heart and at her mind. Celemîr heard it talk of the diminishment of Men, of their destruction and fall to the darkness, speaking about a war that sparked the beginning of his rein. She knew it was the Dark Lord, she knew that their connection was growing in strength with each step closer she took to Mordor and that her mind would become ever more susceptible to an unwanted invasion. Gandalf had warned her that Sauron would try to seek her out and if he found a way into her mind, then they would all be in danger. The dream had ended with a crack, the eye changing into a scene that made her feel sick to the stomach; a field, dark and shadowous, littered with the bodies of her comrades and allies.

Celemîr did not know if the dream was foreshadowing Helm’s Deep, or another battle to come. She did not participate in the plan, choosing to stay at a safe distance while Théoden and his men prepared to meet the army of Isengard. She remained at the doors of the Hornburg, watching men and women hurry around with baskets and weapons, the children crying for food and for their beds,

“My lady,” a young man stood next to her at the doors, “Will you not go to the caves? It is safe there,” she gave him a startled look,

“I will not abandon my ally,” Celemîr explained a little shortly, “no one can stop me from fighting,”

“I can vouch for that laddie,” Gimli had taken his helmet and heavy overcoat off, wearing only a tunic and shirt. He had a handsome wooden pipe hanging from his lips, “No chain can hold her back from a battle,” Celemîr stroked the hilt of her sword, her eyes flashing dangerously. Gimli chuckled and nudged her in the ribs when the boy scurried away, “You scare the younglings,”

She shrugged, “It is a power I believe, ‘all those whom she meets, cower beneath her gaze’,” her comment resulted in silence, “Or so I have heard, there are many different tales of my terror,” Gimli stared at her for a moment and then he dissolved into laughter,

“What terror?” he turned back into the Hornburg, “the only terror I’ve seen is when Lord Éomer spoke to you,”

Celemîr took out her dagger and swished it at the dwarf’s back but her action was only in jest, “You enjoy tormenting me, son of Gloin!” he let out an echoing cackle in response,

“I will ‘till you wed!” Celemîr could only smile as he darted down a flight of stairs, disappearing into the shadows. She re-sheathed her knife and returned to the doors, continuing upwards until she reached the inner topmost battlement, walking among the soldiers. The wind whipped up her hair and pulled at her shirt, prompting many around her to stare, watching the way her eyes flashed when a flock of ravens descended from the heavens, beginning their circle over the Deeping. Celemîr remained where she was, leaning against the parapet, one hand on her chin and one on her sword, looking out across the wide plains that would soon serve as their battlefield.

 

It started to grow dark and the guard changed, a new set of men taking their place upon the battlement, taking their final mark before the battle. Young boys and elderly men wearing armour that was far too big for them stood around her, speaking in low voices around fire pits, holding weapons with white knuckles and thin fingers. She spotted a man wielding a bow, trying to fit an arrow into it but he continuously dropped it, swearing each time,

“Here,” Celemîr waltzed over to him, the fire growing and leaning towards her, “Your touch must be light, let the arrow guide you,” she curled around him and helped him knock the arrow,

“Tha-thanks,” he stuttered but she only shook her head,

“It is the least I can do on a night such as this,”

There was a blast from down below, a horn so familiar sounding that it sent a shiver down her back. The men rushed past her to look over the battlements, calling out in joy when they saw the golden procession heading up the causeway to the Deeping,

“Haldir,” Celemîr sprinted through the fortress to the gates, her skin glowing so bright that any one that stood in her way had to shield their eyes, her happiness so pure that many men who had already lost hope smiled in her wake, “Haldir!”

Théoden watched her barrel down the steps and into the elf’s arms, laughing when he tucked her against his chest. The army of Lorien elves sprang forward, tucking their bows away and pressing their fists against their hearts in a collective greeting,

“ _You came_ ,” she cried, her elvish brushed over the skin of everyone who heard it, warming their bones, “ _You have word from Galadriel_?” Haldir nodded,

“ _She speaks of the light_ ,” he muttered, “I _t grows stronger with each day_ ,” he held her at arm’s length and studied her choice of clothing, “ _Your armour - is this what it is like travelling with Men_?”

Aragorn bristled at Haldir’s words but Celemîr only smiled, squaring her shoulders and shutting her eyes,

“If my lady says the light grows,” the glowing turned to smoke, a gentle flame licking over her body, burning her robes and replacing them with metal and heavy leather. The breastplate was engraved with a huge eagle spreading its wings, etchings of fire running over the strapping over her torso and shoulders; chainmail that shone like glass falling against her chest and thighs; a band made of bronze materialised on her forehead and tiny gold beads appeared in the braids of her hair; she pulled out her sword and it glowed red hot, sizzling in the humid air, “Then let it shine for all to see,”

 

Celemîr was stationed on the Deeping wall along with the rest of the Fellowship, stood next to Gimli and staring straight out across the plains, at a far off light that drew closer with every second. It was like a city of a thousand torches, migrating towards Helm’s Deep at a speed nothing could match. The mass got closer and closer until she could make out each and every face of the orcs that marched. Some were holding spears longer than she had ever seen; some had axes with serrated edges; some brandished swords laced with poison; some even had shields bearing the mark of Saruman, a huge white hand; all were wearing armour that was thick and almost impenetrable, a black metal that looked to be industrially made using furnaces of temperatures that she could only dream of. Her eyes were trained to see vast distances and she knew Legolas could see the same but he was smiling, almost cruelly,

“What’s happening out there?” Gimli was stood on the other side of the elf and he could not see over the parapet, hopping from one foot to the other in an attempt to see the oncoming storm,

“Shall I describe it to you?” Legolas taunted, “Or would you like me to find you a box?”

Gimli looked up and for a moment, Celemîr though he was going to throttle the elf but he only laughed heartily.

That was when the first crack sounded, startling even the elves and threatening to shake the mountain to ruins. It took a few moments for the rain to begin but when it did – the clouds opened and sent freezing hail down in vast waves. Celemîr scowled up at the sky, hardly flinching when another thunder clap rattled the wall,

“ _Why the dark look_?” Haldir asked from behind her and she rested a hand on her sword, watching the rain hit the orc army in torrents, “ _The rain is good, it will slow them down_ ,”

“ _Not for me, I work with the sun and with the heat_ ,” she explained sourly, “ _This will only hinder my power_ ,”

“ _Use the light_ ,” Haldir commented offishly, his words punctuated with a flash of lightning, “ _Or have you forgotten what Erebor unleashed all those years ago_?” her mind flashed back to the battle before the mountain, her wings spreading and summoning great white forks that struck the ground and took out much of the enemy. Celemîr felt a hand on her shoulder, “ _Do not doubt your power_ ,”

There was another flash of lightning and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, her skin buzzing with the anticipation of using this storm to her advantage. She focused back to the enemy, watching them come to a stop only a few yards from the bottom of the Deeping wall. They began shaking their torches and spears, thumping them on the ground to prepare themselves for battle,

“Take arms!” Aragorn shouted from somewhere down the wall and the elves obeyed, pulling out their bows in perfect synchronisation and taking aim at the thousands of orcs lined up for them like ready-made targets. Celemîr did the same, tugging the string taut against her cheek and tensing her shoulders, focusing on one particularly large orc with long limbs and sharp yellow teeth. The rain still fell, the thunder still boomed but the armies remained poised to attack at a single shout, both waiting for the other to begin. Celemîr felt her hair sticking to her neck and armour, the rain chilling her bones and rendering her fingers numb, but she still held the arrow ready like the rest of the elves and the Men at the Hornburg – waiting for the final command to advance, waiting….

 

An arrow was let loose.It sliced into the chest of an orc and sent it tumbling into the mud. Aragorn shouted for them to hold fire and Celemîr saw an elderly man with grey hair staring at his withering, shaking fingers as if they had betrayed him. She felt angry that he has let the arrow slip but also sad, because he was too old to have proper control over his limbs. He couldn’t hold the heavy long bow up and he couldn’t keep the string sharp like others younger than him.

Aragorn ran up next to Haldir, his own sword in hand and he narrowed his eyes at the orcs far below. They were growling menacingly, bristling because one of their own had already been killed; they were angry. Thunder shook the ground and suddenly the enemy began its advance forward, running at the wall with snarls and shrieks of battle,

“Release arrows!” Aragorn bellowed and they obeyed, the elves’ deadly aim striking the first line of orcs and sending them into the mud below. But more appeared, quickening their pace and waving their weapons, “Fire at will!” Aragorn swung his sword over his head and the elves stationed behind the Deeping wall began shooting arrows up into the sky, always hitting their mark.

Celemîr screamed when the elf beside her was struck with a long black shaft. He toppled over the side of the wall and into the sea of orcs. They had crossbows equipped with arrows thicker than she had ever seen, and they were being fired at her comrades, picking out the strongest archers and sending them to their deaths. With a growl, she thrust her arm out and an arrow aimed for Haldir turned to ash.

“Ladders!” someone shouted and Celemîr dropped her bow, leaning over the side of the wall and watching several wooden ladders laden with orcs get hoisted up towards the parapets, “Swords! Swords!” the elves obeyed without a second thought, unsheathing long silver swords with golden hilts,

“Celemîr!” Legolas shrieked at her, pointing at the ladders with his bow, shooting at the orcs adorning them. There was one being rigged up in front of her, the orc at the top snarling and aiming his sword at her head, “Do it!”

He was referring to what Haldir had said earlier and she jolted in remembrance, slapping her hands together, palms stinging from the cold and she took in a deep breath. Thunder shook the mountain and a huge bolt of lightning descended from the sky, hitting her body. Celemîr whipped her hands forward, sending the bolt crackling towards the ladder. The wood and orcs exploded with an ear splitting snap, and many who were stood below the ladder were set aflame. Another two ladders exploded much in the same way only a few moments later, Celemîr’s cry of victory sounding out across the battle. The storm was strengthened by her presence; the rain, the thunder and lightning bending solely to Celemîr’s will and obeying her every command.

But still the orcs penetrated the wall, raising ladders faster than the elves and men could keep up with. Gimli seemed to be in his element, cackling and joking with every orc he cut down, comparing his kills with Legolas, who was shooting arrows faster than anyone ever could. Aragorn was fighting in tandem with Haldir, thrusting their swords this way and that, working in unison to prevent any more orcs from climbing the ladders. Celemîr had abandoned her lightning strikes, prompting the storm to move on while she took up her sword. She danced from orc to orc, slaying them with bared teeth and wild eyes. Sometimes she hopped on to the parapet to evade the enemy, swinging her sword in wide arcs, balancing on her toes and not even thinking about the onslaught below. There was no time to take a break, to regain her energy and catch her breath; if she did then she would surely be killed. It seemed there was an infinite amount of orcs, returning in their vast numbers each time Celemîr thought she had secured her side of the Deeping wall.

“How you doin’ lassie?” Gimli threw his axe into the back of an orc that was about to strike Celemîr, “I’m up to twenty seven!” he looked proud at his number of kills and she laughed at him, cutting off a head and slicing open a stomach,

“I’ve lost count,” she panted and punched an orc so hard, its armour shattered and its chest exploded. She sent a tongue of fire down the wall, burning all the orcs at the tops of the ladders. Many of them squealed in pain and let go of the wood, causing those beneath them to fall as well, “How is Haldir?”

“Fighting like a lord!” the dwarf resumed battle, letting out a loud cry every now and then, thrusting his axe into heads and stomachs and legs. Celemîr did the same, picking up an orc weapon and continuing with two swords, no limb in her body suffering with fatigue. It was the bird within her that keep her alive and aware; with lungs so large nothing could steal its breath, bones so strong nothing could break them, muscles so dense and tight that it could break stone with one hit. She inspired those around her, sparking them to fight as hard she did, copying her energy and trying desperately to match her strength. It seemed that the race of Men was holding out, that maybe they would see a victory when the sun rose.

 

Then the tides turned. The sea of orcs suddenly made way for a lone creature to run towards the bottom of the wall holding a torch of fire. Celemîr could not watch it, her own opponents refusing to die even when she cut off arms and hands. She heard Aragorn calling for someone to ‘shoot it down’. She heard arrows lodging into flesh. She heard it hurl itself into the storm drain at the bottom of the wall – and then all she heard was the ringing of her own ears.

During the battle, unbeknownst to Men, the orcs had been piling up huge containers that held the magical concoctions of Saruman. The fire the creature had been carrying lit the containers and set off an explosion so huge that it blasted a hole in the middle of the Deeping wall. Men and elves alike were thrown in all directions, most dying instantly from the impact or from debris falling on them. Aragorn was flung down within the Deeping, Gimli landed somewhere along the wall, Legolas shielded himself beneath several corpses and Celemîr landed within orc territory. It was a miracle that she awoke so suddenly, finding herself looking into the monstrous faces of the enemy. Her head was throbbing from the explosion and she was covered in dust and mud. Orcs trampled around her, over her body like she was just another corpse upon the battlefield. Her head lifted and she saw that they were penetrating the Wall, spilling into Helm’s Deep, meeting the charge of elves with spears dripping with blood. She saw Gimli launch himself off the wall and into the carnage with a shout and a howl; Aragorn joined the charge with a raised sword and Legolas had resumed shooting in a blur of silver. Celemîr could not move, her arms and legs were paralysed beneath the mud and bodies; her lungs were sucking in gasping breaths and her ears were blocked as if she was stuck under water. There were so many orcs, so many of them around her, swamping the fortress and barrelling up the causeway towards the Hornburg. With nothing in their way, the enemy fell against the Men with screams and snarls, slaughtering her allies, overpowering the war-weary folk instantly.

Celemîr managed to roll over on to her belly, blood smearing over her cheek from a wound on her forehead. The dead stared at her, white and wishing, their eyes burning into her shoulders and willing her to lay with them. Celemîr wanted to get up and fight, aid her allies, go and join in with Haldir on top of the wall. She did not want to die; she did not want to lose. Although Haldir was older than her, he was her closest friend and companion; a brother through the darkest of times. Celemîr could see him fighting valiantly and he turned away suddenly, listening to Aragorn shouting for them to retreat to the keep, to fall back and defend the Hornburg.

Then he fell. He was struck once in the stomach and she could hear him gasping for air, whirling around as if in a wild daze. He was struck again from behind, the blow sending him arching to the sky before collapsing out of sight. Celemîr knew he was lost and suddenly living was too painful for her to bear, her heart throbbing and aching, her muscles cramping and her bones creaking. The _Naur Dulin_ curled its wings around her, shielding her from the rest of the world for as long as she needed. She imagined him lying with dirt covering his face and blood staining his armour, just like every other being that had fallen for this battle, this selfish battle. She felt feathers caressing her skin and drying her tears, a small voice asking her if she wanted to abandon this cause, fly away to the East and never look back. Celemîr shook her head and sobbed,

“Haldir,” she croaked and the wings vanished, “My brother!” her voice was strained and she curled her knees into her chest, “HALDIR!”

Her grief and anguish materialised in the form of a blazing white fire, erupting from her body and soaring outwards and upwards, burning and melting and destroying everything in its path. Her screams shattered ear drums and vibrated the walls of the Hornburg, sending many men to their knees. The fire suddenly retreated back towards her, glowing as bright at the sun for a moment before disappearing. The smoke cleared. Celemîr stood in a crater surrounded by partially roasted orcs and the ashes of her fallen allies. Her eyes radiated heat, her hair smoking and curling as if it lived apart from her, and in her hands was a flame as pure as starlight but hotter than any furnace.

And when she began to fight, it was a sight to behold. She slashed and scorched and sliced; taking on anything that ran at her, using only her powers to defend herself; she did not need anything else. Many of the men watching on had not seen the _Naur Dulin_ in action before, having heard only of her immense power and skill, and now she was fighting for them, with them, defeating hundreds of orcs with blasts of fire and smoke.

“She is winning!” Théoden could only hear what others had to say, barring himself against the main gates in an attempt to stop the invaders from breaching the keep, “She will bring us victory!” he so wished to be able to witness her sheer force, to watch as she struck down orcs as if they were only pieces of parchment, tearing flesh with her searing hot fingers and spitting molten hot breath from her mouth. If she survived this battle, he would be honoured for her to share his name and family.

Celemîr thought of nothing but her brother and the pain she felt, throwing herself into the fight with cries and shouts of desolation, not caring that her hands were blistered or that her skin had begun to crack. The _Naur Dulin_ desperately wanted to reveal itself and fight with her, spread its wings and destroy every living thing that had threatened or caused her misery. It tugged at her chest, pulled at her heartstrings and whispered into her ear,

“ _Let me help you,_ ” it said, “ _Let me save you,_ ” a ball of fire sent several orcs flying into the air and Celemîr saw her vision turning red, just like it always did when her protector was preparing to emerge. She almost let it consume her. She was so close to submitting to the call of her heart when someone shouted her name over the sounds of battle.

“CELEMÎR!” it was Aragorn and his voice caused her eyes to return to their usual hazel, the fire on her arms turning back to red and orange. He and Gimli were on the causeway in front of the Hornburg gates, fighting the procession of orcs.

It was a split second decision, picking up that stray bow. Celemîr aimed right at the line of orcs and shot a smoking arrow, hitting the causeway and incinerating the enemy. It gave Aragorn and Gimli a break and a small advantage but the orcs simply continued their assault, returning in full force with more shields.

“PULL BACK!” it was Legolas. He was leaning over the battlement, letting down a rope for Aragorn and Gimli to escape with, all the while shouting at those left fighting, “PULL BACK TO THE KEEP!”

It was only then that Celemîr noticed the ropes connected to the Hornburg wall, and the giant metal ladders that were attached to the other ends. It was like the beginning of the battle, all those hours ago, when the orcs raised wooden ladders to overthrow the Deeping. They were attempting to penetrate the fortress itself, hoisting the great metal frames that were adorned with hundreds of orcs. She fought her way to the one closest to her, not caring that something had pierced her waist or pricked her calf. She head butted the orc on the lowest strut and clamped on to it. The metal roiled and bubbled beneath her touch, collapsing from the lack of support. Celemîr did not see it fall; she only heard the squeals of the orcs that were crushed beneath its weight. She had already began to climb up the side of the causeway, barrelling into the fortress, cutting down the orcs in front of her with a sword she plucked from the stomach of a boy too young to have to see battle. There was no man left living as she darted through dark passageways, holding her hand to her face against the rotten smell of death, still sending blasts of fire towards anything that moved,

“CELEMÎR!” someone bellowed her name and she looked up, her eyes spotting Gamling, one of Théoden’s chief guards, waving down to her from the inner battlement, “RETREAT TO THE KEEP!”

She tried to reply but her voice was knocked out of her by the swing of an axe. The blow sent her reeling, all the air rushing out of her lungs and she spluttered, kicking the orc and sending it backwards into a wall. Celemîr clutched her sternum and shook her head of the clouds that had started to form. She heard Gamling call to her again and she took up his command, leaping on to a window ledge and scaling the wall to the topmost battlement, swinging herself over a parapet and onto an orc, breaking its neck swiftly. She could see the Hornburg, the men running into it from all directions, the orcs pursuing them and cutting them down with valiant cries. They fell on her like vultures upon a carcass, bursting up the steps and flooding over the parapets. All she could see was a black mass and her pale hands clutching the hilt of the sword. The air turned sick and wet, sweat pouring from her skin. Celemîr jabbed and punched, scooping up a stray dagger and slicing open throats. Legolas fired an arrow at one that was about to strike her and he called her name,

“Celemîr, quickly!” he could see her tiring, the paleness spreading over her skin and the bruises appearing beneath her eyes. Her blows did not parry, in fact they seemed stronger, hitting orcs so hard they flew several feet before landing dead, “We must fall back!”

Celemîr tried so desperately to get to him, dodging blows from the left and right. She was continually forced back up steps because of the sheer amount of orcs coming towards her. People kept shouting for her to retreat to the safety of the Hornburg but she couldn’t, there was too many of the enemy and too little of her. She was overwhelmed and there was no escaping her fate, yet she still fought with every fibre in her being, grunting and yelping with the effort it took to bring the enemy down. Legolas kept on shooting arrows to help but he saw that there was no way out for her, she was not going to emerge from this battle alive. He did not let the hopelessness tugging at his heart stop him from trying. Gimli stood by his side, watching Celemîr battle. He spotted dark blood seeping down her face and he heard her clothes tear from orc claws. There was nothing they could do.

No one saw the spear; they were not expecting it to soar up from an inner corridor. It plunged into Celemîr’s shoulder and she stumbled backwards with a snarl, gripping her arm. There was a lull in the action, the orcs pausing to stare, waiting to see what would happen; would she break or persist. Blood dripped from between her fingers and Celemîr choked on the pain. The she ripped the weapon from her muscle and launched it into the forehead of an orc.

“LASS!” Gimli wailed, he did not want to see her fall but could not bring himself to turn away. The dwarf wished he had averted his eyes when an arrow gauged into her neck. The force and the shock sent her sprawling to the floor, “LASSIE!” he tried to run forward when a particularly large Uruk-Hai let his foot fall on her chest, keeping her in place. Legolas took him by the arm and dragged him away from the scene, avoiding the dwarf’s flying fists and ignoring his curses. The elf did not want to see it, he did not want to turn back and watch Celemîr crumble at the hands of the enemy; no one did.

The Uruk pressed his foot against her torso and her armour cracked beneath his weight. Celemîr’s nails snapped when she tried to get the appendage off her, causing him laugh maliciously. The blade flicked away the shattered fragments of her breastplate, touching the pale skin over her heart. Celemîr did not make a single noise when the sword broke through what was left of her armour, her mouth opening in a silent scream and her back arched inhumanely. With a violent shove, the point lodged in the stone beneath her, sending the orcs watching into a hysterical frenzy. Celemîr tried to move, to call out, to crawl away from her end but the weight in her chest only allowed her to raise one arm above her head, resting it over the side of the parapet. She wanted to feel the wind touching her skin one last time. The Uruk snarled at her and twisted his weapon until she fell limp, a single trickle of blood falling from her lips.


	9. Chapter 9

Everyone heard the Uruk-Hai shriek as one, confirming her demise. Legolas stopped short when he finally entered the Hornburg hall with Gimli, falling to one knee and clutching his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut when Aragorn shouted at him,

“Where is she?” he asked angrily, “Where is Celemîr?” Gimli began to howl, throwing his axe to the floor and openly weeping,

“She has fallen!” he wailed, “Our lady has perished for Mankind!”

Aragorn let out a strangled noise and all the colour drained from his face, leaning against a pillar as if his strength had left him like the life had left Celemîr. Théoden gripped his injured shoulder and hissed at the pain,

“We are doomed!” he spoke lowly, “What can Men do now against this hatred?”

There was only a small group of men defending the doors, piling benches and tables up against the orcs trying to barrel their way in. Aragorn looked around at the grief, the loss, the desperation and he turned to Théoden with bared teeth,

“We ride out,” he said in a strong voice, “We ride out and meet them,” Théoden looked at the promised king of Gondor,

“For death and glory,” he growled, reaching out and grasping Aragorn’s collar, “For her,” they nodded at each other, “For Rohan,”

 

 

It was not upon the battlefield that Celemîr awoke, but in the arms of her most beloved,

“ _You have come so far my child_ ,” Galadriel’s voice washed through her like a cool breeze, “ _So far, and for so long_ ,” tears leaked down her cheeks and Celemîr sniffed,

“ _I feel tired and heavy_ ,” she clawed at her chest and found there was no sword, only a bloody hole where her heart stuttered in its place. The arrow in her neck turned to dust when Galadriel touched it, though the haggard wound spat out thick crimson blood over the elf’s white gown. Celemîr’s armour lay around them in pieces, some tiny like shattered glass and some like a sharp blade; she was bare before her lady and her skin shone like a thousand diamonds, broken only by rivers of red,

“ _Death is not your path_ ,” Galadriel touched her heart and kissed her brow, “ _this is only the beginning of a new era of kings and queens_ ,”

Celemîr began to cry again, harder than before and the elf rocked her back and forth gently, “ _I am scared amillë_ ,” she admitted with a raw voice, “ _it hurts!_ ” Galadriel stroked her cheek,

“ _I know, I know my cherished_ ,” she seemed distraught, “ _but you must go back to them_ ,” her face stretched into a bright smile, “ _let your destiny will itself_ ,” Celemîr’s chest burned painfully and her skin rippled with a shiver, “ _follow your heart_ ,” Galadriel continued smiling as Celemîr’s eyes fluttered closed, her head lolling to the side as if she was falling into a deep sleep.

 

 

Celemîr could see a figure in her mind’s eye, cradling her just as Galadriel did, the sun’s rays hiding their features. The arms surrounding her were stronger, thicker and covered in cool metal, rough fingers holding the spot over her heart where the Uruk’s blade was. She grappled at her neck and found a bandage over the arrow wound, but her fingers still came back wet and warm. Her eyes were closed against the sun and she let out a heaving gasp, as if taking her first breath of air,

“Hey, hey, easy,” that voice was familiar. It was a mere fragment in her memories, something she only dreamt of when the nights were too cold and lonely. Celemîr opened her eyes and reached out, touching his face and neck like she was starved of contact, not caring that she was smearing blood over his skin and hair,

“Éomer,” everyone breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of her voice, “Éomer,” she choked on the air, gasping and spluttering with life. Éomer held her hands tightly and moved so she was sat up against a piece of stone,

“I know, I’m here,” he cupped her cheeks and blinked back tears, “they said you’d met your end, that you fell into darkness,” his throat was raw with emotion and Celemîr clutched his neck. She opened her lips but no words came out. She swallowed thickly and looked up at him,

“We won?” Éomer let out a gritty chuckle at her naivety and pressed his forehead to hers,

“We did my love,” he told her with pride, and relief because her death was not in vain, none of the losses were in vain; they gave the Men a victory over the foulest of evil and sent the rest crawling back into their filthy holes.

Gandalf came forward after a few moments, staff in hand and a beaming smile stretched across his face. He reached down and pulled Celemîr to her feet. He blessed her, scolded her and then embraced her, laughing joyfully and not stopping the tears flooding. The wizard lifted his arm and King Théoden strode forward, bending at the knee before her and pressed his fist over his chest, swearing Rohan’s ultimate allegiance to her. Then he spoke of the battle, describing how Aragorn convinced him to ride out to meet their foes for the last time, praising the man like he was already king of Gondor. Gandalf picked up at dawn, moving and gesturing like he was performing a play about how he and the Rohirrim charged down the mountainside, winning the battle once and for all. Then Éomer stroked her fingers and told her how he had asked Aragorn, they had all wondered where she was, whether she was in the Hornburg or still in the Deeping. Gimli had shown them her hand, shining in the wakening sun, floating over the edge of the parapet, and the dwarf had led them to her resting place with prayers and blessings in his tongue. Éomer told her how he was held back by Legolas when Gandalf took the sword from her heart and touched her lips, stroking her eyelids and squeezing her neck. The wizard had then kicked at the crumbling parapet, moulding a hole for the sun to blaze through, washing over her mangled body like warm orange water. They had waited with bated breath, waited for the sun to bring back the life that was lost, waited for any sign that her heart would heal. Legolas had only let him go when she sucked in a huge gulp of air. They had all watched him bandage her neck and clog the hole in her chest, holding her tightly and kissing all over her face until she woke.

The story left her dizzy. Celemîr shook her head and looked out across the battlefield. The sun was high in the sky and illuminated every corpse, and it cooked each smell to a thousand degrees. The stench of faeces, blood, urine, mud and metal permeated the air, catching in her throat and causing her to cough a little,

“We won, but at what cost?” she wondered aloud and her eyes migrated to the ruins of the Deeping wall, spotting hundreds of elves lying among the stone and water; some with no heads or limbs, some facing the sky with the eyes open, some with numerous weapons in their bodies and some that looked as though they were only sleeping. Celemîr saw a figure in red next to an elf with golden hair, and two other figures a few meters away talking, sat upon dead orcs. She glowed at the familiar dwarfish quips and Gandalf clapped his hands in happiness, chuckling as if there was no more evil left in the world.

 

Celemîr insisted on seeing her companions before submitting to a healing tent, only leaving Éomer’s side when she journeyed over to Aragorn. He was kneeling beside a body and she knew who it was before she got there. The wound in her heart ached painfully when she saw the icy eyes. They were staring right at her, wide and clear,

“Haldir,” her voice cracked with sorrow and she touched her brother’s forehead, kissing him like she had done for Boromir all those weeks ago. Aragorn drew his eyes to hers and they embraced tightly, silent tears adorning their faces but when they let go of each other; they could not help but smile. Celemîr’s skin glowed with happiness at the sight of her friend and she helped him to his feet,

“I must get used to my companions resurrecting,” he told her and Celemîr laughed, tossing her head and clutching his arm, “I feared I had lost you forever,” the mood changed a little but her skin did not stop radiating,

“ _My path is not broken by death_ ,” she explained gently in elvish, “ _Galadriel told me to follow my heart_ ,” their gazes fell on Éomer standing with his uncle on what was left of the causeway, and Celemîr flushed, “ _My destiny is my own, as is yours Gondor King,_ ”

Aragorn looked at his feet and smiled, “ _We must focus on getting our two Hobbits back_ ,” they stopped at where Legolas and Gimli were sat among dead orcs, arguing over who had killed the most. The elf approached her cautiously, as if he could not believe she was really there. He touched the hole in her chest and rubbed her blood between his fingers. Then he gathered her up into his arms and pressed his face into her hair, letting out heaving sobs and crushing her to his body. Legolas didn’t let go until Éomer asked him to, strolling over with a horse and clapping Aragorn on the shoulder. They all watched Gimli struggle for words before simply breaking out in bellowing laughter, shaking her hand with the strength of a thousand dwarves.

 

Celemîr’s skin glowed brighter with every interaction, settling to a gentle halo over her cheeks when Éomer lifted her on to the horse, intending to have her patched up ready for the trek home. The young women tending to the wounded became incredibly flustered when Celemîr was carried in by the crown prince, showing them to a corner and bowing graciously when Éomer claimed he wanted to be the one to bandage her. They gave him a wet flannel and several pieces of white cloth, backing away to continue treating the rest of the soldiers. No words were spoken while he cleaned Celemîr, only apologising when she let out a squeak of pain and kissing her hand when he had to dig pieces of wood from the laceration on her neck. It took a little time but Éomer was competent at healing and took care to make sure her arm was in a sling, that her heart was beating when he pressed herbs to the cleft in her chest and that she was adequately glowing with whispered praise. Once outside, he sat her back on the horse, ignoring her claims that she was perfectly capable of walking and led the horse towards where the rest of Rohan was gathered. King Théoden gave the call and the journey back to their homes began, him leading the way with the Rohirrim spread out within the ranks, aiding the civilians and the wounded, hauling the dead along on the back of wooden carts. Celemîr watched a small girl run over to one of the wagons and climb on to it, screaming and sobbing, clutching the hand of a man who must have been her father or brother,

“Wait,” she pulled on the reins and hissed when raw flesh rubbed against her bandages, “Wait, I can help,” Aragorn shook his head,

“They will be buried in Edoras, Celemîr,” he told her, “You can do nothing now,” Celemîr turned to him with blazing eyes,

“And what of my kin?” she spoke brokenly, “Who will lay their souls to rest? I must help them – my brother - ,” Aragorn said nothing more to her and stepped to the side, letting her push the horse far ahead, disappearing over the horizon. Éomer cleared his throat,

“I did not know she had siblings,” he looked over at Legolas who was walking next to Eowyn, talking to her with kind eyes and excited hands,

“Aye,” Aragorn nodded, “She grew up in the company of elves, under the watchful eyes of the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn; they are her kin and she knows of nothing more,”

They watched as Celemîr reappeared over the crest of the hill, drawing Legolas towards her and they took their places before the battlefield with bowed heads. The wind brought forward their voices, murmuring songs for the dead, praising them and wishing them well for the next life. Aragon hummed along, also bowing his head when the sun was brought out from behind a cloud bank, shining bright and warm, its golden rays wrapping around everyone’s shoulders and comforting them. Celemîr raised her hands to her lips and blew out, pushing a great gust of wind over them all. It pulled at their clothing and tossed Aragorn’s hair about, it rallied horses and sent shivers down everybody’s spines but it was clement, causing the cheeks of children to turn pink and reaching the coldest corners of people’s souls. The wind washed over the battlefield, not disturbing the dust or rock, whistling through the bodies and the ruins of the Deeping wall before hitting the side of the mountains. It rushed upwards and disappeared with a whisper, curling into the clouds. Aragorn turned to Helm’s Deep and saw to his astonishment, that what had been a towering mass of black – the corpses of the enemy – was only a pile of burning embers; and the bodies of Celemîr’s kin had disappeared with the wind, blowing away as white ash, floating towards the sun and out of sight.

Legolas was still singing woefully and Celemîr had fallen to her knees, nursing her aching heart. Éomer snagged a horse and hurried it over the hill, coming to a thunderous stop next to the elf,

“That was unlike anything I’ve ever seen,” he exclaimed and Legolas quietened, cocking his head to the side, “Thank you,” Éomer bowed his head and Legolas did the same, turning back to the group and following on next to Gimli. Celemîr let out a deep sigh and went to stand next to Éomer, giving him a weak smile,

“They are at peace now,” she explained, taking the horse’s reins and leading it back to the procession, falling into step near a group of the Rohirrim, “It is not how a traditional burial goes, but it is the best I can do in these troubled times,” Éomer eyed the bandage around her neck, “stop worrying, I can hear you grinding your jaw,” he could not help but grin,

“Sorry, but I don’t think I could lose you a second time,” the paranoia still leaked into his voice, “especially to an infected wound,” Celemîr rolled her eyes at his confession,

“If I were to die again,” she smiled encouragingly at him, “it would be in battle, defending my allies and I would go down fighting! It certainly would not be because of a silly infection,” Éomer laughed and tugged her into his side, wrapping his thick arm around her shoulders and kissing the top of her head. Celemîr felt so tiny next to him, her crown barely coming up to his chin and her eyes constantly fell to the intricate carvings on his chest plate. But she did not mind, her kind were determined like Dwarves, graceful like Elves, brave like Hobbits and strong like Men; her power certainly made up for her height.

 

 

As soon as they reach Edoras, Gandalf called for a party to travel with him to Isengard. Théoden claimed it was his right to go and selected several of the Rohirrim to accompany them, including Éomer; Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas and Celemîr also decided that it was their duty to part in the journey, relying on the fact that their two Hobbits could very well be alive there.

The path took the party through Fangorn and Legolas raved about the trees, stating that he would come back one day to explore each and every inch of the place, but he seemed to be the only one who was genuinely overjoyed to be there. The forest lay over them like a blanket of despair, weighing down on their shoulders and tugging their mouths into frowns until they reached the Southern boundary; Isengard. Celemîr was travelling on her own horse Hasufel, the chestnut stallion Éomer had first given Aragorn on the wild plains of Rohan. She was nursing her wounds, dabbing Kingsfoil over her neck and letting Hasufel guide himself, trusting him to know the way and keep her stable. She only pulled at the reins when the Orthanc of Isengard came into view above the trees. It was a tower of five hundred feet, made of a rock that was deep, gleaming black, shining as though it was wet. Hundreds of levels reached to the sky and opened out to form four, sharp pinnacles, shaped like a terrible crown to fit a terrible king. Surrounding it was murky green water, stretching for miles, bubbling and roiling over the industrial might of Isengard, filtering down from the Ent Wash high in the mountains.

The group stopped before a large pile of rubble, where two small people sat smoking long pipes and chewing on dried meat. One of them stood up and opened his arms,

“Welcome, my lords!” he spun around and pointed back at the Orthanc, “to Isengard!” then he burst into raucous laughter, holding his belly. Celemîr immediately recognised them as the two Hobbits they had been trailing since the fall of Boromir; it was Merry and Pippin, and they were alive. Her face broke into a smile and her skin gleamed in the broken sun,

“You – you rascals!” Gimli scolded from his place behind Legolas, “You have led us on a merry hunt…and now here we find you – smoking and feasting!” Merry kicked his legs and blew a smoke ring into the air,

“We sit on a field of victory, enjoying a few well-earned comforts!” he explained happily, leaning back against a boulder,

“We are under orders from Treebeard, he’s taken over management of Isengard,” Pippin piped up proudly, waving his arms again in a wide arch. Celemîr had missed the Hobbits, their contagious joy and seemingly everlasting happiness, their laughter and their singing, the patter of their feet when they walked, the way their faces shone even during the night and the gentle way they spoke to each other when times were dire. It was refreshing talking to Merry, inching Hasufel close to Éomer who had the Hobbit on the back of his horse, and she listened to the story of the siege of Isengard and of the march of the Ents. He pointed out each of the tall creatures and told her their names, and what kind of tree they were, and what they did during the battle. He recounted how he and Pippin threw rocks from the topmost branches of Treebeard, holding on while the Ent Wash cleansed the mines of Isengard and how they scavenged the old villages below for food and pot weed to smoke.

Gandalf led the party onwards through the waters, weaving around huge metal wheels and pulleys, chunks of wood and hundreds of pieces of orc armour. The foot of the Orthanc had lots of scratches and notches cut into it from the Ent’s attempt at breaking the stone apart to get to Saruman. A few of them were still knocking into it, roaring and growling as they did, but most were parading around the Orthanc with metal and stone in their arms, cleaning up the filth of the orcs and of the betrayal of Saruman. Celemîr watched them walk with willowing strides, cutting through the water and splashing up the valley to the mountains to repair the damage to the rivers that flowed down from the mountains. One of them strode up to the group, opening his wrinkled hand at Gandalf as a sign of mutual respect,

“The filth of Saruman is washing away,” he spoke with a deep, echoing voice, “Trees will come back to live here – young trees,” he continued slowly, picking his words carefully, “wild trees,”

Something splashed into the water and Celemîr watched Pippin wading through the water away from them. She saw him reach into the gloom and touch something, something hot and dangerous. It was a seeing stone, a Palantír, a means of communicating through the mind, and a means of controlling it. Pippin lifted it out of the murky water and Celemîr withered with a sigh.

There was the Eye; huge and lidless, flaming in the dark, casting its light all over her, searing her flesh and eating at her soul. Celemîr saw it and she sagged under its weight, her wounds stinging and feeling as though someone had pushed ice into them.

“Celemîr?” the voice struck the Eye from her sight and brought her back to Isengard. Éomer had a hand on her shoulder and was taking the bandage off her neck, “They are healed,” his voice was disbelieving, “how can this be?” Celemîr cast her eyes to Gandalf in confusion, upon feeling that the laceration above her heart was gone and the hole in her shoulder had disappeared. The wizard looked her up and down with a grave expression, giving her a slow nod. Celemîr realised that he had seen the Eye too, he had experienced the heat and the malice and the terror just as she had. He had the Palantír wrapped in the folds of his cloak, safely preventing it from seeking hers, or anyone else’s mind.


	10. Chapter 10

The Golden Hall was filled with remembrance; tapestries of red and green and gold were hung from the rafters, benches and tables were set out in their dozens, barrels of mead and ale were stacked up along the walls, and the city-folk held up their goblets and tankards in honour of those whom they had lost. The group had arrived late in the afternoon after riding with the wind from Isengard, following Shadowfax across Rohan to Edoras. They were met by handmaids and guards; Théoden and Éomer were whisked off to be prepared for the feast, Aragorn opted to slink into the shadows, Legolas and Gimli chose to sit with the Hobbits and tell them the story of Helm’s Deep. Celemîr was tugged into a chamber by Eowyn.

“It is a celebration,” she explained happily, wearing a gown of the purest white and a crown of silver, “a celebration of life, and I believe you have the first right to be there,” her eyes drooped at the memory of Aragorn telling her of how Celemîr was struck down, only to rise again with the sun, “you need robes, ones fit for a queen,”

“I am no queen, my lady,” Celemîr was handed a gown made of soft cotton and was a dark blue with delicate silver thread weaving over the bodice. It was a warm night so there was no need for furs or extra layers and Eowyn brushed Celemîr’s hair, letting it fall free of the braids she had worn into battle. It reached her waist and shone like silver, curled and crinkled from being up for so long. Eowyn smoothed a sweet smelling balm over her collar bones,

“To entice my brother,” Eowyn told her wickedly, “You make him happy,” and they touched foreheads, smiling and giggling as if they were already sisters.

 

Celemîr took her place next to Aragorn in the front row of the Golden Hall, holding a goblet of wine and toasting to her fallen brother when Théoden called for honour. He spoke of the battle and of those who fell, ordering them to drink and celebrate those who are still living. The feast began when night fell and the stars emerged from behind the clouds; huge great boars were brought out and spit-roasted over the fire pit, bowls of potatoes and warm rolls accompanied stews and soups, plates of delicate sweeties and cakes were given to the overexcited children while the adults drank ale until it stained their teeth. Food littered the tables and floors, drink spilt over laps and down chins, dogs sat with the people on the benches, cats prowled through legs and around ankles for the fatty pieces of meat no one wanted. Music played all throughout the feast, upping the tempo and rhythm when people began to dance, twirling and clapping and singing and laughing. Théoden sat with his council and family for the feast but drifted through the crowds as the night got more joyous, talking to widows and playing with children, chasing them and recounting his war stories. It seemed that most of the honeyed mead was being drunk by the most unlikely bunch; the two Hobbits and the elf. Merry and Pippin were chanting tales from the Shire and prancing around on a table, kicking their feet together, clinking their tankards and butting each other in the head. Legolas was surrounded by a dozen empty pint mugs and was looking at his fingers in fascination, accompanied by Gimli who was fast asleep opposite him. Éomer stood a little to the side, clutching his belly and heaving with laughter when the elf stood up, and immediately lost his balance, crashing into the bench and falling beneath the table. The horse lord turned away from the spectacle with tears streaming down his face, spotting Aragorn and Gandalf conversing in a dark corner, and Celemîr sat with a group of men across the hall. He watched as they solemnly raised their tankards and drank deeply. The men bid Celemîr a fond farewell and left the table, some of them squeezing her shoulder in empathy before leaving to re-join the feast. She reached for another drink and buried herself in it, picking at a roll dripping with goose fat,

“Why do you mingle in the dark?” Éomer sat next to her, straddling the bench, “You of all people should be celebrating tonight,”

“I have been,” she shrugged her shoulders and nodded her head across the table, where seven tankards sat in a neat pile, “The king said the honey would calm my nerves,” Éomer smirked,

“Why are you nervous?” he asked and Celemîr sighed, “Is it the crowd? We can sneak outside if you want – I’m sure no one would mind,”

His suggestion caused her to straighten and she blushed, “It would not be proper,” she whispered and Éomer paused for thought. A song stirred up from the fire and he stole at glance at her,

“Would a dance be proper?” he reached for her hand, “C’mon, allow me to make you happy,”

Eyes followed the two all the way to the middle of the hall where they were whisked along with the other dancers, joining in on the snappish beating and spinning around along with everyone else. It was a traditional dance, one performed with others and in a circle, clapping and stomping before moving on to the next person, only to be spun around at high speeds until one was dizzy enough to fall back into line. Celemîr only began to enjoy herself when a younger man held her a tad too tightly, slipping his hand over the curve of her lower back and suddenly Éomer was twirling her, growling at the boy with dark eyes. The music changed to a gentler piece and suddenly they seemed to be the only two dancing, bowing to each other before drawing close enough for their breaths to linger on the other’s lips,

“You needn’t be so possessive,” Celemîr told him calmly, “If he had stepped out of line, I would have blistered his hands,” Éomer let out a breath and she sniggered, her eyes glowing in the smoky gloom. The boar on the fire had been removed and the flames roared, warming each corner of the hall and sending many of the far goners into a light doze, smoking pipes or curling around loved ones,

“Still, I like to claim ownership,” his words made her hiss and Éomer flinched,

“I belong to no one my lord,” there was still a small teasing tone to her voice but the heat coming from her lips caused him to bow his head in apology, “I am no prize to be won, although many seem to think so,”

“I meant no offence Celemîr,” they had stopped dancing, “I am sorry,”

“You’re right however,” she continued, launching back into a slow waltz, “I suppose it is nice to show others who we are, who we belong with and not to,” the spark was back in her eyes and Éomer relaxed, giving her a wide grin,

“And you do you belong with my lady?” he asked her with a coarse voice,

“I think,” Celemîr swallowed thickly at their proximity, “I think anyone who is worthy,” her skin tingled and shone, prompting many to divert their gaze at the couple. Éomer and Celemîr were too wrapped up in each other to worry about the onlookers,

“Who is deemed worthy of a princess such as you?” he was whispering against her cheek, “One who can tempt ice or snow? One who can tame that creature within you?” Celemîr let out a sharp breath,

“One who cannot burn,” and then they kissed. Her lips were scorching and Éomer understood why she would want someone who did not frail under her power. It only made him kiss her harder, clutching the fabric of her robes and tugging her impossibly closer. Her heart exploded in time with the fire, the flames waving and dancing into the rafters, spitting sparks and singing with joy, complementing the thunderous cheers that filtered through the crowds. Celemîr’s skin glowed so brightly, so magnificently, glittering like the purest gem found only on the moon itself.

Aragorn watched the two embrace from beside Gandalf and he filled with hope, burning gently in the pit of his stomach. If someone as untouchable as the _Naur Dulin_ could find love in a time of turmoil, then surely he could. Gandalf laughed gleefully when they finally broke, smiling at each other before hugging tightly. It was a happy time, however short and fleeting, and Gandalf urged the people to enjoy it while the night was still young.

Théoden was standing with his niece when the roars sounded out, people clapping and whistling at the couple beside the fire. He was glad that someone had found a partner tonight, and he was glad that person was his next of kin. It meant that, should Éomer survive the time to come, he would rule Rohan with the most powerful being in Middle Earth by his side. Eowyn could not contain her joy and jumped up and down, tugging on her uncle’s arm in excitement,

“There is hope!” she sang to him, “The star is our beacon!” and she flitted off through the hall, fighting her way to her brother and sister-to-be. They were sat at the table where Gimli was sleeping, pouring ale and celebrating the night. Eowyn watched them kiss again and cast her eyes to where Aragorn was, smiling when she caught his gaze. Celemîr suddenly spotted the young shield-maiden and beckoned her over with a positively dazzling smile,

“We must toast!” the firebird cawed and Gimli woke with a snort,

“I’m ready for anythin’,” he seized a goblet, raised it, shouted something in dwarfish and spilt most of the contents over himself,

“How about me admitting your wisdom,” Celemîr watched his intoxicated mind struggle through her words, casting his eyes about for the elf and then he caught the way she was slung against Éomer, the way the horse lord was touching her neck and was pouring her another tankard of mead,

“No!” he called out and there was a thump on the underside of the table, “No way lassie! I was only foolin’ around!”

“So you believed I would find no comfort in Éomer?” although his words were hurtful, Celemîr only chuckled and Gimli shook his head desperately,

“I did not believe you would see him again lass,” this time, the mood changed and her light dwindled a little, “I thought that the plains would be your only meeting, a fleeting glimpse of what could be,” he was speaking like a wise elf, “I thought Helm’s Deep was your downfall,”

The wound on her heart throbbed painfully but she paid no attention to it, grasping Gimli’s hand across the table,

“My ‘downfall’ is not yet mapped,” she assured him, “You have heard the lady Galadriel, you understand her gift and her knowledge. When I was struck, she came to me and told me things, about my future with the One and with the Dark Lord,” Celemîr visibly shivered, “She also told me that death was not ahead, it is not and nor will it ever be,” Éomer stroked her shoulder and touched his lips to her temple, “I choose my own paths, as do any of you – mine just happens to be a little brighter,”

There was hysterical laughter from beneath the table and Legolas emerged, wiping his mouth and straightening his tunic,

“I believe I have won this little game master dwarf,” the elf declared valiantly, raising a mug and drinking from it, only to find that it was a gravy boat.

 

 

The celebrations lasted well into the night, coming to a close in the early hours of the morning, the last dancers and cooks and guards retreating to whatever place to sleep. Some merely dropped where they were, slumping to the floor surrounded with furs or with other people’s limbs. The Fellowship were shown to their quarters, a large room with three beds and lots of furs sprawled all over the floor, thick enough to be mattresses and the Hobbits made themselves at home right away. They crawled into a corner together, pushed a sheepskin against the wall and curled up in their elven cloaks. Gimli fell face first on to one of the beds, not bothering to remove his clothes and Gandalf did the same on another, wrapping himself up in the hides and tucking the Palantír into his chest, still shrouded in the folds of his robes. Aragorn remained about the Hall, strolling down passageways and inspecting the tapestries adorning the walls, a goblet of wine in his hand and a piece of bread in the other. Legolas was stood outside on a ledge at the far end of the Hall, breathing in the night, casting his eyes towards the Shadow Lands with his cloak pulled tightly around his shoulders. Celemîr sat on the third bed, her back supported by several feather pillows and a book rested against her knees, a small flame flickering just in front of the yellowing pages. It was about Fangorn and the surrounding lands, speaking about the myths and legends that originated from the whispering trees, denying that there were unicorns but suggesting that griffins dwelt within the caverns of the mountains. Eowyn had given it to her before they parted, saying that she read it as a child and it spurred her imagination and helped her build fantasies she would spend hours playing in. Although it was children’s book, it really was interesting; telling Celemîr all about the Ents, Isengard, the villages around it and of the many creatures that lived there. It even had a little chapter on herself, speaking at great lengths about how terrible her cry was and how her wings could summon storms that could crack the earth in two. It was rather exaggerated and she nearly laughed when the book claimed that she was created when the sun spawned with the tallest mountain. The flame danced around, circling in front of her eyes and shivering a little when she stretched, her bones creaking and groaning. There was movement in the corner,

“Pippin!” One of the Hobbits was tiptoeing across the room, “Pip, what’re you doing?”

The younger of the two, Merry, sat up and rubbed his eyes, spotting Celemîr watching them carefully,

“I just want to look,” Pipping was leaning over Gandalf, reaching out for something the white wizard was holding in his arms, “Just a little look,”

“I wouldn’t!” Merry said quietly but desperately, crawling over to his friend, “Please!” Pippin held the Palantír in his hands, staying into the darkness of the glass. There were golden rays dancing beneath his fingers and Celemîr felt her skin buzzing with energy,

“Pippin, put it down!” She shuffled to the end of the bed and tried to reach out, swiping her fingers over the glass but it burned, and suddenly burst into life. Pippin screamed in pain and was thrown to the floor, the Eye staring at him and pulsing in his hands. The Hobbit writhed around the floor, the Palantír not relenting its hold on him, staring into his soul and whispering in his ear. Merry could hear His voice too, loudly and demandingly but it was Black Speech, and all the things He said merged into one terrible roar.

Celemîr could see Him. She could see the black helmet and armour dripping with blood and oil, she could see the fire surrounding Him like a halo, she could see the dark peaks of Mordor - she could feel Him touching her cheek,

“ _You do not fool me little bird_ ,” it was sticky, clogging her ears and reaching into her mind with long slimy fingers, “ _your heart cannot deceive me and your soul cannot burn me. You are the sun and I am darkness, maybe we are the same, maybe I can change you, free you from these Sons of Kings who will do nothing but use you_ ,” there was nothing else, only Him and Celemîr tried to turn away, finding that she was locked in her place. She could not feel the fur beneath her knees, just sharp rocks and grit that dug into her skin. She tried to force him out of her head like Gandalf taught her to, thinking of Haldir and of Éomer and of Aragorn and her lady Galadriel, but He only laughed, clutching her shoulders and running his cold hands down her arms, “ _Oh my little dove, how strong you are! I can feel the fire in your veins, it is good and warm and worthy. It feels like my own_ ,” He forced her to touch his palms and she felt the power pulsing through his skin, but she dared not look down, “ _maybe you are my own, my lovely bird, maybe I can have you instead of the One, perhaps you shall be my One_ ,” there was a ringing in her ears, as if she was being held deep underwater, “ _my beauty_ ,” the ringing grew louder, the heat suddenly becoming too much for her and all Celemîr could see was Him, “ _my Precious_ ,” she tried to scream but nothing escaped her throat, a clawed hand closed around her heart and tugging. Her vision went black and her soul turned colder than ice, dropping into the deepest depths of the earth. He wanted to take her, claim her. He was getting closer, inching towards her with the great lidless Eye behind him, watching everything she did. Celemîr found it hard to breathe, her chest heaving and tightening with every inch He advanced towards her. The Eye was so close, melting her eyelashes and blistering her lips yet she still shivered, her skin paling and growing blue with the cold that gripped her bones.

Then He disappeared, quite suddenly and with a roar, the Eye vanishing into blackness. Celemîr could only hear her own panting for a few seconds and it grew sharper, and more panicked when she processed what had just occurred,

“He knows!” Legolas held her face in his hands, trying desperately to bring the warmth back into her skin, “He knows, oh he knows!” She wailed, her lips cracking and turning blue, her eyes growing blacker than they already were. It was a sight none of the people in the room wanted to see again. When Pippin had touched the Palantír, it had affected Celemîr too and had sent her into a state that should only occur if she turned to the darkness. Her body heat vanished and was replaced with a deadly ice, chilling everything in the room. Her eyes turned black, engulfed with shadow and they shone like a beetle’s eyes, striking fear into anyone who looked into them. Legolas was the only one who went to help her, laying her down and touching her cheeks, jumping slightly when she started to talk,

“He will come!” Celemîr cried hysterically and clutched at his hands, “He will not stop!”

Éomer crashed into the room, brandishing a sword and wearing a battle-worthy sneer. He cast around and slumped when he saw the state Celemîr was in, laying on the bed covered in a thin sheen of cold sweat and curing her limbs as if she was in terrible pain,

“Celemîr,” he did not care that his sword landed on his foot when he dropped it, “What foul thing has happened to her!” Éomer took her in his arms put a hand over her eyes, speaking lowly in the ancient tongue of Men. Legolas dropped his shoulders,

“She saw the Dark Lord,” he explained sourly, alerting the rest of the room, “He knows of her existence and of her power,” he looked down at Celemîr, who was still shivering in Éomer’s arms, “There is no knowing what will happen now,”


	11. Chapter 11

She was to travel to Gondor, to the realm of Kings, to the doorstep of the one who wanted her most,

“It’s absurd!” Théoden would not have it, “You’re delivering her right to His gates!” Gandalf paced the length of the room and stopped in front of he king,

“I will not let her fall into the wrong hands your grace,” he said sincerely, “But should war be demanded of Gondor, then she is all they have,” they both looked at Celemîr sitting in a chair with a bowl of hot soup, looking worryingly thin and growing wearier with every passing moment. Gandalf stooped in closer to Théoden, “She’s a strong girl, nothing will be able to harm her,”

Théoden sucked in a breath, “How so? It seems the Shadowland is draining her, what power will she have in Gondor?”

“The brightest kind,” Gandalf whispered, “She is closer to her homeland than ever before, the _Naur Dulin_ draw their power from their birthplace, from the volcanoes that created them; each step she takes towards Mordor only makes her grow and blossom,”

“But her mind?” Théoden folded his arms, “There is still the risk of Sauron invading her,” the two saw a ripple flit across her skin at the name and she buried herself in the soup, drinking it down like she hadn’t eaten for days,

“Yes, there is a chance that He could seek her mind and consume her body,” Gandalf muttered gravely and stepped away from the king, “But have faith my lord,” he said, “Celemîr is strong and the pull to the light is stronger than to the dark; her time with Elves and Dwarves and Men have given her the strength to remain our dear friend,” Théoden sighed and walked over to Celemîr, kneeling down in front of her,

“Be safe,” he took her hand and touched her palm. He looked over his shoulder and Gandalf was gathering his sword and staff with a small smile on his face, “I pray for your return,” Celemîr put her fingers to his cheek,

“And I pray for your victory,” she stood up and bowed courteously before following Gandalf out of the Hall. Pippin was waiting outside with his cloak securely fastened beneath his chin and a pouch of Lembas bread in his hand. Merry was next to him, growing nervous when Celemîr passed them, beckoning for the Hobbits to follow on to the stables. She ignored their bickering and them asking if they would ever meet again, walking over to a smith and asking for her sword. It had been made on special request, Celemîr overlooking the creation and supplying the furnace with her own fire,

“Metal forged by the light of the firebird is unbreakable,” the blade was long, sharp and charred black from the heat; the hilt was moulded from enamel and was covered in red leather, and it had the head of an eagle fixed onto the pommel. The smith had thanked her for letting him witness such a process, for teaching him the ways of elvish sword making and she gave him her flames, lighting his furnace and ensuring it would never die, never grow cold and never spread. He sharped the sword and urged her to name it,

“What about flame-ward?” Celemîr shrugged at the smith, “Or light wing, that’s a fitting one m’lady,”

She looked down at her own hands and smiled, “Yes, I think so,”

So Light Wing sat on her hip, light and strong, smelling of smoke and of hot stones. Celemîr picked up a saddle with ease and placed it on Hasufel’s back,

“Oh my friend,” she patted his neck, “Off to another battle I'm afraid,” she reached under his belly and fastened the buckles before moving to tighten the reins,

“Celemîr,” there was a new set of hooves and she turned around, coming face to face with a grand white stallion with bronze amulets fixed to the reins and a saddle adorned with wool and cotton. Éomer stood at the horse’s nose and handed the the reins over, “I want you to have him,”

“But he is yours!” She backed away, “Firefoot has always been by your side, I cannot accept him!”

Éomer only smiled, “I trust him with anything, and I trust him to carry you through wind and storms, through battle and through the foulest places,” Celemîr reached out to the horse and stroked its nose. It scoffed and nuzzled into her hand, “He is a gift for you,”

“I shall treasure him,” she looked at Éomer, “I will bring him back to you, I swear it,”

“I’d rather he bring you back to me, my lady,” he laughed and gathered her into his arms, “You do not glow for me, what’s wrong?” Celemîr shook her head and kissed him,

“Speaking with the Dark Lord has its consequences, my lord,” she remarked and Éomer narrowed his eyes at the way she said Sauron’s name, or didn’t say it. Celemîr saw the shadow on his face and she rubbed her cheek against his, “His name pains me; it is cursed,”

“Gandalf said you could be his servant,” Éomer tugged her into a dark corner of the stable, “That you could fall under his spell, never to be saved,”

“Why do you worry about my end?” She leaned against the wall with crossed arms, “All you think about is my ‘falling into darkness’, honestly do you have such little faith in me?”

“No, of course not,” he struggled to find the words, “I do not think I could survive loosing you again,”

“Hey,” he was looking down at the floor and Celemîr stood on her tiptoes to lift his chin, “Do not think about the future, my lord, live in the present; I am here now, is that not enough?” Éomer nodded and dropped his shoulders, “I will see you again, I promise and it will be in light and in flame,” her skin shone just enough to cause Éomer to grin widely,

“There’s my jewel,” they went back to Firefoot and Celemîr swung herself on to his back, settling herself and letting Éomer walk them out of the stables, “Keep her safe,” he told the horse and put his hand on her thigh,

“I’ll keep him safe too,” she bend down and kissed him, her lips hard and hot against his, “ _I pass my light to you, may it keep your heart beating_ ,” her elvish made him drop a low growl and he gripped her neck tightly, biting her bottom lip before pulling away,

“Return to me,” he panted against her mouth and Celemîr nodded. She clipped her heels and Firefoot sprung away, leaping down through the city and out of the gates, Shadowfax following on at an equal speed. Pippin was seated in front of Gandalf and he shouted something at her, but the words were carried away in the wind. None of the three looked back to Edoras, fearing that they would grow instantly homesick and grieve the people they had left behind; so they rode onwards with hard faces and thin lips. They travelled day and night, keeping to the lowlands and to the shadows when the sun was high in the sky. Gandalf had forbidden Celemîr from using her powers to light their way during the night. Firefoot was a clean ride, with him being so big and her being so small that she felt no bump or jolt, keeping her head down because the wind was so strong. There was no question as to why Éomer had named his steed Firefoot, and Celemîr praised the horse each time they stopped for a break.

 

 

On the third day, they reached a rise in the land and Gandalf let the two bask in the might of Minas Tirith for a while, as neither had seen such a great city before. Celemîr found it rather exhausting looking at the King’s city, all the bridges and steps, all the levels and houses built into the stone, all the guardsmen and gates along the outer walls. There was a pinnacle of white stone in the centre, reaching towards the mountain peaks and towering over the rest of the city, housing the White Tree and the Halls of the Kings. They did not dwell on the sight for long; a great storm was brewing beyond the reaches of Gondor, in the realm of Mordor that stood only a few miles from the small, ancient city of Osgiliath at the foot of the mountains. There were huge black clouds shrouding the sun and forks of lighting struck the unseen ground. A terrible roar thundered through the air and beneath the rock. Celemîr felt her heart stop for a moment when she looked over at the black mountains and the evil that lay beyond, but Firefoot had other ideas and launched off after Gandalf, whinnying into the wind and tossing his head.

Minas Tirith glittered in the remaining sunlight, and its walls grew taller and taller with every league they covered. The gates opened almost instantly, the two horses charging into the city, sending crowds of people sprawling out the way. Many recognised the white horse and his white rider, but there were whispers about who could riding atop a horse of Rohan, sitting straight and true with silvery hair and fiery eyes. Their gazes followed the mysterious figure as she passed, turning to the person next to them and wondering excitedly who it was. Celemîr did not pay any of them attention, focusing on trying to stay on Firefoot, for the incline was steep and she was only little. The saddle was beautifully made, as it would be for the Master of the Rohirrim but the stirrups were too big and although the seat was comfortable, it too wide for her and the incline prompted her to slip and slide around in it. Gandalf had no saddle and seemed to be coping fine, keeping Pippin upright, his staff held tall and one hand in Shadowfax’s mane all without falling off.

The three of them made it to the Citadel within a few minutes, dropping from their steeds and hurrying to the doors of the main halls. Gandalf turned to Celemîr with a stern expression, barring her from going any further,

“You will stay out here,” two guards began to walk over to them, “Denethor is a hard man and I do not want you to fall into his hands,” Gandalf pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, “You must not let anyone know who you are,”

Celemîr nodded defeatedly and took hold of Firefoot’s reins, leading him and Shadowfax through to a courtyard where several other horses were being fed, groomed or washed. The stable boys watched in awe as she led the two huge horses over to a trough, patted their shoulders and let them drink. She whispered to them in Elvish, soothing their tired muscles and aching limbs. She noticed the boys staring at her, abandoning their duties to watch her with the horses and she cleared her throat, busying herself with Firefoot’s saddle. She took off the water pouches and tucked her sword secretly beneath a folded sleep mat, concealing it from wandering eyes. Celemîr tugged the hood of her cloak up and pinned the flaps over her shoulders, so to hide her face from the light and from the steward’s spies. She sat on a bench against a wall, shadowed by the Citadel and by a young birch tree thrumming with tiny chirping birds. Their wings made a delicate breeze, soft and warm, kissing her cheeks and singing to her softly. Their flitting and flying caused her to mourn her own wings, her claws, her feathers, the freedom of the sky. The _Naur Dulin_ had not made a sound since Helm’s Deep and Celemîr called for it,

“I need the strength,” she whispered in her mind and a weight settled on her shoulders. It was not a horrible burden but a comforting shield, something for her to wear into battle, “We need the companionship,”

“ _Anything_ ,” her own voice spoke but it was filled with warmth and wisdom, “ _He will not claim you_ ,” Celemîr dipped her head, “ _I will not control you_ ,”

In the past, the _Naur Dulin_ had been a separate being to Celemîr, one who only showed itself when she was in danger or struggling to survive. It was a new line of defence, one the world had never seen before and it engulfed her, doing anything in its power to keep her alive and safe from harm. The firebird had never given her the opportunity to freely turn, never allowed her to take full control of her own mind when the sky was on dark,

“I shall not forget you,” Celemîr was sad to hear her protector’s voice for the last time,

“ _You have the will to dictate your own path_ ,” it breathed, “ _I will always be here for you_ ,”

An emptiness spread through her heart but the feathers and the warmth on her back did not disappear, wrapping around her and moulding to her skin like an invisible barrier to the world. Whatever strength the _Naur Dulin_ still possessed passed on to her, sinking into her bones and filling her veins; she felt rejuvenated, like a new bout of life had flooded into her.

Gandalf and Pippin remained with Denethor for most of the afternoon, emerging from the Hall of the Kings just after nightfall with the news that the Hobbit was now a servant of the steward and that Gondor did not need Celemîr’s help. They were shown to their quarters and Celemîr immediately asked what had happened inside the white chambers,

“Well, the lord steward has accused you of being a servant of Mordor,” Gandalf explained through a cloud of smoke, “He wants nothing to do with you,” his eyes sparkled with mischief,

“He’s gone mad hasn’t he?” Celemîr quipped, sipping from a goblet and joining her friend on the balcony overlooking Minas Tirith, and the borders of Mordor. Pippin remained in the room, fiddling with his new uniform that was laid out on the bed for him, armour, sword and all. She cast a look back at him and sighed, “I will not stand to the side and watch this city fall, you know I won’t Gandalf,”

“I wasn't going to let you even if you did,” he took a drag from his pipe and smiled, slowly turning to watch the Hobbit play about with his new sword,

“I suppose this is just a ceremonial position,” Pippin looked at the two, “They don’t expect me to do any fighting, do they?” He frowned when Celemîr rolled her eyes and turned her back on him, leaning her elbows in the balcony,

“You’re in the service of the steward now,” Gandalfspoke through his teeth, “You’re going to have to do as you’re told,” the Hobbit came and stood between them, resting his chin on his arms and sighing,

“It’s so quiet,” he said and Celemîr took a deep drink,

“It’s that deep breath before every battle,” she told him sadly, “Each side is readying for war, waiting for the other to make its move,”

“I don’t want to be in a battle,” Pippin reminded her that he was young, he was only a Hobbit and Hobbits should never have to see war. Celemîr turned away from him in despair, “but waiting on the edge of one I can’t escape is even worse,” Gandalf sensed her discomfort and went to the Hobbit, leaning down next to him, “Is there any hope, Gandalf, for Frodo and Sam?”

“There is always hope Master Took,” Celemîr’s voice was strained and she poured herself another goblet of wine, “One needs only to look for it,” Gandalf smiled at her words but faltered when something shook the land. A great groan echoed from the shadows of Mordor, it was only a small tremor but what followed sent them all into a paralysing state of shock. A great pillar of white light shot into the sky, piercing the clouds and sending the stars back into the West. Celemîr could not move, but neither could Pippin or Gandalf; all of them were rooted to the ground, staring at the pillar,

“There is His first move,” Gandalf spoke gravely, “He is calling his allies to him,”

“Then we must call for ours,” Pippin said decisively and the wizard looked to Celemîr, who was busying herself with more wine, nursing it as if it was her last drink,

“We already have one,” he placed a hand on the Hobbits shoulder, “And she is the most powerful ally anyone could ever wish for,”

 

 

Gandalf had a plan, as he always did, and it was based solely on the Hobbit climbing a sheer cliff. Celemîr could not believe what he was suggesting Pippin do, even though it was for the good of the realm. She and Gandalf were stood beneath a pergola, trying to look unassuming and also trying to make sure the Hobbit didn’t fall to his death. He was about two hundred feet above them, scaling the side of the mountain with his tiny hands and bare feet, aiming for the outcrop that held a pyre of wood. Pippin darted from ledge to ledge like a mountain goat, swinging from his hands and not even looking at where he put his feet. Celemîr felt her heart jump into her mouth when he reached a ledge and tucked himself into what little shadow there was, pausing to catch his breath,

“Hurry up,” Gandalf muttered, as if his quiet words would spur the Hobbit on and she shuffled a little as a group of guards marched past. Pippin took only a few more minutes to reach the summit; a large pile of wood and straw caged in metal with a lamp and oil canister suspended above it. That was his goal; to light the beacon of Gondor, to call for aid. He looked over the side of the cliff, casting his eyes around for Gandalf and Celemîr but found that he was far too high to be able to pick them out from the hundreds of people that were walking the streets below. But they could see him and Gandalf folded his arms impatiently, smiling at several small children who emerged from the building opposite them. Celemîr remained looking at Pippin, watching him crawl around the wood before scrambling up it, ducking down low when he spotted two guards a few meters away. One was sat on a stool eating an apple and the other was leaning on his spear, both of them were chatting to each other and not caring for the small creature standing on top of the beacon. Pippin dislodged the oil canister and its contents slopped over the wood, but when he tried to get the lantern; both Celemîr and Gandalf realised that he was too short to reach it. The Hobbit looked down desperately and she saw the panic in his eyes as if he was standing in front of her,

“I have to risk it,” Gandalf knew what she was going to do and opened his mouth to argue, “There is no other way,” Celemîr pulled her hood down over her eyes and pressed herself into a pillar, rubbing her hands together and blowing into them. A bow made of fire suddenly materialised in her fingers, along with an equally blazing arrow. Gandalf retreated into the shadows behind her and Celemîr aimed up at the beacon, her ears twitching at the voices and footsteps coming towards her hiding place. It only took a second to pull the burning string taut and the arrow shot through the air, landing in the oil slicked wood and immediately setting alight. Pippin only just swung out of the way, the fire spreading quicker than one could blink. He began his descent back down the cliff, his elven cloak concealing him against the grey rock and from the eyes that were caught by the flaming beacon. People pointed up at it in awe, and then grew ecstatic when a second was ignited high up in the mountains beyond the city, and then a third which only Celemîr could see, far off in the distance,

“The beacon has been lit!” Someone shouted and it echoed around the city, “The beacon of Amon Dîn is lit!” The words passed through the lips of everyone who believed, of people who knew hope and faith. Gandalf looked up at the beacon with glassy eyes and beckoned Celemîr back into the shadows, embracing her with a joyous laugh,

“Hope is rekindled,” she told him with sincerity, “Do you think anyone saw me?” The wizard spotted Pippin making his way towards them, pushing through legs and feet,

“I believe you are still a powerful secret my lady,” he told her, holding his hand out for Pippin and clapping him on the back in congratulations, “And you, Peregrin Took, have done something good for once; Gondor has called for aid and hopefully, Rohan will answer,”

There was a sudden blast, a horn of a guard bellowing for help. Screams and shouts only followed and Celemîr looked to the sky, stumbling back into Gandalf in fright of what she saw. It was only a shadow on the mountain but it belonged to a terrible creature, one bred in darkness and filth, with wings like iron and teeth sharper than swords. It was the Nazgul, the flying steeds of the Ring Wraiths. Celemîr raced into the gathering crowds, shoving and shunting her way to a place where she could see out across the fields of Pelennor, a wide grass land that stretched from the gates of Minas Tirith to the walls of Osgiliath and the banks of the Pelennor river. She was surrounded by men of the guard, all watching a group of riders speeding towards the city, pursued by three Nazgul and their riders. Celemîr could help, she could shoot down the foul creatures and burn their wings; she could summon her own wings and tear them apart with her claws but she was powerless among these people. There was no way she could not expose herself to the people of Minas Tirith and to Denethor’s soldiers, so she remained where she was; just another maiden watching with horror at the carnage happening below her. Horses and men were being picked up and thrown around like toys, the Nazgul diving into them like a fish would dive into the waves of an ocean, spreading the fleeing like they were nothing.

Then came the white rider. There was audible gasps around her, people pointing at him and praising him for saving their boys and their men. Gandalf sped forward on Shadowfax with Pippin sat at his chest, riding out to meet the Nazgul with his staff raised high. One of the beasts spotted him and let out an ear-piercing shriek, diverting its course to attack him. Gandalf thrust his staff into the air and emitted a light worthy of the sun, dazzling the Nazgul enough for them to become disorientated and fall back, retreating to the ruins of Osgiliath. Shadowfax screamed in victory and galloped round to join the riders, falling into their ranks and entering the main gates with them.

Celemîr was among the many flooding to meet the brave soldiers, carving passed weeping mothers and cheering fathers, hurrying down forgotten passages and dropping from balconies into the streets leading to the main entrance courtyard. As little as she was, she managed to push her way right to the front, ducking through the horses and their riders, heading straight for Shadowfax. Gandalf was talking urgently with a young man wearing green robes and wielding a blood stained sword. He had fair copper hair and the faint shadow of a beard, and a nose that reminded her of someone she once knew, with stormy blue eyes that stared at Celemîr when she came to stand next to Gandalf. She felt a strange kinship with the man, as if she had seen him before, an age ago,

“I know your face,” his voice was very deep and commanding, rumbling through her like thunder,

“I’m sure we haven’t met before,” Celemîr tugged her hood a little further over her face, diverting her eyes to the floor,

“Nonsense Celemîr,” Gandalf said defiantly, “Captain Faramir, you have heard tale of this creature from the time of your youth,” he looked down at Celemîr fondly, “She is written into your history, your present and shall be Gondor’s future,” Faramir’s mouth opened, recognising her name and he bowed graciously,

“My Lady, I had no warning of your presence here,” he looked around at his men and they seemed in as much awe as he, staring at her and bowing when Celemîr peered around Shadowfax,

“We arrived on urgent means, times are dark,” she explained, “I am Gondor’s ally and I must fulfil my duty to the realm,” Faramir nodded at her and clipped his heels, urging his horse onwards,

“We must talk my lady,” he said when he passed her, “This is not a chance meeting,” and he rode off, flanked by several of his guard on their horses. Gandalf remained behind, dropping from Shadowfax and lifting Pippin to the ground,

“He likes you my lady,” the Hobbit grinned and Celemîr shook her head,

“It is a child’s love,” she sighed, “I should imagine you would feel the same if you had grown up with tales of an elven legend, only to meet them in person,” Celemîr patted his shoulder, “Besides, my soul is with another remember?” Her heart ached upon remembering Éomer, wanting so dearly to see him and talk to him, feel his comfort on the eve of the battle. It was not set in stone and no one could foresee it, but Celemîr knew it; the stillness and the whispers that invaded the back of her mind indicated that something big was coming, and very soon.


	12. Chapter 12

She accompanied one of the guardsmen up to the armoury, noting with a clenched stomach that he looked remarkably like Haldir; white hair, light blue eyes, a long face and a tall willowing stature. The only difference was that he was dressed in grey armour with a blue velvet tunic that bore the White Tree of Gondor. He was a kindly man, informing her of the battle fought at Osgiliath and that their lord steward was demanding that they reclaim it, with no hope of winning. He, as well as many others, seemed to detest their steward, grumbling into the shadows about his brash decisions and not taking into account the consequences. Their moral was low, their faces pale and their bodies sore from battle, and Celemîr felt helpless within their company. They were not like the horse lords of Rohan who relished in battle and accepted death as a righteous gift; these men did not want to ride out again and they certainly did not like the idea of death.

“Death is a barren wasteland,” Faramir was not as tall as Éomer, but he still towered over her and cast a long shadow against the walls. He had caught Celemîr unawares in her quarters, sat in a chair with her legs propped on the balcony and there was a candle balanced on her knee. She was melting the wax with her fingers, letting the fat droplets stain her trousers before picking them off, “My men said you listened to them,”

He sat in the chair opposite her with a goblet of something, looking out across the city and onwards at Mordor. The black mountains did not hold his interest for long and he hunched his shoulders, diverting his eyes to Celemîr. She was looking at him curiously,

“Did they not tell you what I said?” She asked and Faramir shook his head, “Death is nothing to fear my lord, it is a path we simply must take, a new part of our journey to peace,”

He grunted in disagreement, “What do you know of death? You are immortal,” His words struck a chord deep within her and Celemîr took her legs down, setting the candle on the low stone wall, “My brother is dead, my father is mad and has ordered me to lead an assault on Osgiliath at dawn; death is inevitable,” she suddenly recognised Faramir, recoiling within herself when his brother sat in his place. Boromir had blood pulsing through his veins and life rooted into his bones. A smile stretched across his face and his eyes twinkled,

“I knew your brother,” she said quietly, “Boromir. I was with him when he died,” her friend disappeared when she blinked, Faramir’s grief stricken face filled the space where he had been, “I was the last to touch him,” she took his hand and lifted it to her lips, “We gave him the only burial we could; I laid him with his weapons and cleansed him, I blessed him,” Faramir let out strangled gasp,

“Thank you,” his voice was strained, “I should only hope you will do the same for me,”

Celemîr dropped his hand with a hiss, “Where is your hope? Captain of the guard, son of the Steward, son of Denethor? Am I to force this entire race to believe what they refuse to see?” The candle exploded, sending hot wax in all directions and leaving the flame floating in the air, flittering around their feet before rising next to her cheek, “hope is the fuel of life; in order to live, you must first want it!”

Faramir watched her eyes blaze with a memory, “You speak as if you have experienced death?”

“Did you not learn about me in your youth? While you were nursing, I was fighting a dragon and defending a mountain,” she bent her head, “You have heard of this war, my lord? Everyone has heard tale of how Thorin, son of Thrain battled ‘till his last breath, having seen his kin being slaughtered just moments prior; he was as strong as any Man I know!” There was smoke in her throat, “And not eight moons ago I fought for Helm’s Deep, I fought for the good of Man, I **died** for the good of Man and this is how you repay me?” Faramir was taken aback with her confession, “With small words and plans for a burial? This is not the allegiance I was promised!” She seemed to be talking to someone else entirely, raging and cursing to a separate entity, “I cannot fight with men who have no hope; _what is to happen if Mordor strikes? Am I to watch them run into the city with their tails between their legs?”_ She started speaking in elvish and Faramir watched her whole body wilt, a cold breeze lifted her hair and prickled his skin. Celemîr closed her eyes when Galadriel did not answer, retreating back to her chair and gazing at Faramir, “You must see, my lord, you must see why I want you to have hope. The Hobbits you came across in Osgiliath? The Ring-bearer, Frodo? He carries the world on his shoulders and whatever he does will decide future of this realm; we cannot abandon hope for him,”

“My lady,” he was gentle with his words, “my father wishes me dead, he wishes for me to be in the place of Boromir; is that not enough reason to lose hope?” Celemîr did not know how to ease his aguish so she beckoned for him to come closer, plucking the stray flame from above her head and she held out her hands,

“It will not burn you,” she whispered, “feel it,” Faramir’s palms rested in hers and the flame spread over his hardened skin, sinking against the lines and the callouses, “This is life; it is tiny and delicate and fragile. I could crush it and be done with this mess,” Celemîr swallowed, “It must be cherished by all,” she lifted her hand and pressed it to Faramir’s heart, the small flame breaching his skin and caressing his heart, “Do what you will for the steward, meet tomorrow with your sword raised and your soul open but you must remember that you can control your own fate - maybe death will spare you,”

Faramir held her hand to his chest for a moment before standing up with a grunt, “The mind of my father is a force no one can control; if he believes I am unworthy of life then so be it,” he chugged the rest of his drink and walked back into the room, making for the door, “Boromir always thought you were a mighty queen, the fabled ruler of the sun and the sky,” Faramir stopped with his fingers clutching the handle tightly, “I used to think you were more than that,” Celemîr’s eyes turned glassy, tracing the lines on his face and the tendons in his neck, “I thought you were the sun, walking among men to secure their destiny in the light but I’m afraid my lady, that there is nothing you can do for me now,”

He left her swiftly, shutting the door silently and Celemîr curled her knees to her chest.

 

 

The city guard was riding through the main streets of the city, all of them adorned in new shining armour and carrying freshly sharpened swords and spears. The crowds parted for them and laid flowers, blossoms and grasses in their wake, praying for the men in tongues of old and kissing their fingers as they passed by. Gandalf was sat on a wall clutching his staff, wearing a grim expression and pursing his lips when several women began to sing in mourning. Faramir rode at the head of the procession, his helmet secured beneath his chin and his midnight blue cape rustled in the nearly nonexistent breeze. He paid no attention to the women handing him flowers and gifts of their love, keeping his eyes trained forward and his hands tight on the reins,

“Faramir!” It was the only voice he yearned to hear, carrying over the heads of the maidens and the old men and the mothers and the children, “Faramir! You stop at once!” He continued riding, his ears twitching at the gasps and whispers of admiration making their way through the crowd, “You cannot do this!” A pale hand yanked on the reins and his horse keened, coming to a halt,

“Leave me,” he did not want to look at her, fearing he would do as she commanded and everything after, “I must follow my orders,”

“Even if they are suicide?” Celemîr did not care that the people could see her, it was purposeful what she wore; a silk ivory dress with a translucent surcoat that floated and whispered against her skin. Her hair was down and shone in the sun, her skin glowing from the memories of her kin she had conjured up for the occasion, and golden bands moulded like flames climbed their way up her wrists and over her biceps. There was no mistaking the heat in her eyes and the fire dancing beneath her skin, people murmuring excitedly to one another and reaching out to try to feel the purity radiating around her,

“I must follow my father’s orders,” Faramir squared his jaw when Celemîr dug her fingers into his thigh, barely feeling them through his armour, “You have to leave,”

Celemîr understood that there was no persuading him, though many of his men shuffled towards her with a faint glimmer of hope. She sucked in a breath and placed her bare foot in the stirrup over his, the coolness of his armour pressing right into her bones,

“Faramir,” she whispered, slowly heaving herself up and resting on his knee, “ _What power and life you have bestowed upon me, let it pass to him_ ,” he did not look at her when she kissed him, her mouth brushing his bottom lip ever so lightly and ever so daintily, “ _Keep him safe and keep his heart beating_ ,” Celemîr touched where her lips had been and dropped down, letting go of the reins and for the briefest moment, Faramir did not make to leave. She saw him swallow and then he kicked his horse forwards, leading his men out of the main gates and down the dusty road to the fields of Pelennor. People surrounded her with words of awe and wonder, holding their hands out and stroking the fabric of her dress, calling her queen and goddess. Celemîr wasted no time, picking up her skirts and running through the streets, her bare feet making no noise and any person who stood in her way dropped to their knees and praised her. There were tears flooding down her cheeks when she reached a street that overlooked the fields, high up and shadowed by the mountains, coming to a halt on a walkway that led to a small thicket, filled with fruit trees and sweet blossoms that caught in the wind. She could see the men rallying their horses, lining them up with the western edge of Osgiliath, taking out their swords and lowering their spears. Her eyes did not miss the way some of the men shook and refused to brandish their weapon; she did not miss the shadows lurking in the ruins of the town, mangled flesh taking up bows and arrows. Each man had at least three shafts aimed at him. Celemîr covered her mouth when they began to advance, Faramir in front and his guardsmen all shouting for him, with him, some waving the banner of Gondor and some taking up swords.

 

It was over in the blink of an eye. The filth lurking in the ruins let their arrows fly and the Men fell with screams, horses lost control and turned back to the city, only to be shot with another wave from Osgiliath. Celemîr could hear the collective cries of the people below her, and she could hear something else, faintly. It was as if a voice was being carried by the wind, wrapping her mind in with curtain of fog, forcing her eyes over to the black peaks of Mordor and the burning red clouds beyond,

“ _Is this how they treat you my little dove?_ ” The voice was eerily familiar and Celemîr closed her eyes, “ _They accept your help, mark your allegiance in stone only to march out to betray the light you gave them. Men are flawed my love, they cannot accept the help offered to them,”_ there was an ache in her heart and she fell to her knees, “ _\- especially from one so beautiful and pure like you_ ,”

“Please,” she was so angry, so enraged with Denethor for sending his last son to his death, “I do not know -,”

Someone wrapped their arms around her, stroking her hair and caressing her neck, “ _Hush my beauty, do not waste your tears on those who only know greed and falseness_ ,”

Celemîr opened her eyes and saw Éomer sat in front of a fire with another man, scolding Merry for thinking he could wield a sword and wear armour. He told Éowyn that she could not follow him to war, that the fields were no place for a woman. Celemîr blinked and Thorin Oakenshield was succumbing to dragon sickness, accusing her and his other allies for betraying him. The arms around her shoulders tightened and Aragorn ventured into her line of sight, holding the hand of a dark haired she-elf and telling her to sail into the West with her kin, telling her that there was no hope for her in Middle-Earth. Then King Théoden clouded her mind, wearing armour and clutching his arm, speaking of the battle raging on beyond the Hornburg, cursing her for leaving them and shouting for his men to abandon all hope,

“ _You see my pretty bird, Men and Dwarves alike are nothing compared to you, and where are the elves? Sailing away from this battle with their luxuries and pride_ ,” Celemîr saw a tall elf with white hair and blue eyes riding upon a huge elk, watching a bloody war take place far below him and he turned away with a scoff, commanding his armies to retreat, “ _And you thought he loved you_ ,” the hands squeezed and burned her skin, “ _These beings don’t love you, they only see you as a pawn in their little games, using you - weakening you_ ,”

“They - they -,”

“ _They don’t deserve you my precious one_ ,” the voice was wet against her ear and Celemîr shuddered, “Y _ou deserve power, might, control. We are the same Celemîr, we want the same things, breathe the same air, share the same blood_ ,”

Sauron stood before her with his hand outstretched. He was not coated in smoking armour, nor did he have a helmet adorned with horns and teeth on his head. He wore black robes and a golden crown; his hair as white as hers; his eyes holding the same fire and the same mirth; his lips concealed fangs and a forked tongue; his nails long and sharp like claws, “ _I can take you away from all of this chaos, from these pitiful Men who hold nothing to their hearts_ ,”

Celemîr lifted her hand and she felt her resolve breaking, she felt the pulsing of his skin beneath her palm and she looked into his eyes,

“All I wanted was hope,” she whimpered and Sauron bent his knees, stroking the tears from her cheeks,

“ _I know, I know my sweet_ ,” he touched the space above her heart, “ _Come with me now my little dove, my beautiful flower_ ,” she was blinded by her emotions, the sadness and anger blocking out the light that tried so desperately to pull her back from the black clouds, “ _We will tear these Men apart, nothing will stand in our way; not their hope, not their faith, not their love_ ,”

Éomer’s face floated just outside her peripherals, as did Aragorn’s, Legolas’ and Gimli’s; as did Haldir’s.

His memory withered her, causing Celemîr to shrink away from Sauron, “I cannot,”

There was a flash of lighting and he bared his teeth, “ _And why is that my precious?_ ”

“Because I love them,” Haldir grew clearer, walking towards her wearing white, “I love them all -,”

“ _They have corrupted your mind_!” Sauron’s skin darkened and he began to shake, “ _They have weakened you my darling! Let me help you grow and heal_!”

“I don’t want to,” Celemîr pushed away from him, “you’re lying!” she turned to Haldir and touched his hands, finding that they had no substance and he was only a figment of the past, “I love them and you don’t know what love is,” Her lady joined her brother, standing next to him in a halo of starlight, “You want me as a pawn, another piece to your game of swords,” Sauron retreated within himself, his robes curling inwards and hardening into the terrible armour, his face was thrown into darkness and disappeared behind the maleficent helmet, “I will never join you and I will never kneel for you,” Celemîr felt feathers on her back, soft fingers closing over her neck and running down her collar bones. Her dress fluttered in an invisible breeze and her fingers trembled, a strange power buzzing just beneath her skin.

She looked up into the distance, the clouds above Mordor growing ever more ominous and clashing together with the wrath of Sauron. The love she felt for all of them, all the Men, Dwarves and Elves, they were not her weakness; love is never a disadvantage. The very strings of her heart had banished the Dark Lord from her mind, casting him back to his black tower and fiery mountain. There was a lull in her breathing, to check to see whether she really was free from his grasp,

“Thank you my brother,” Celemîr could no longer see Haldir and she dared not close her eyes, just in case she saw that dreaded orb that pierced rock, flesh and bone. But her kin was with her in spirit, curling into her chest like a tiny flitting moth, breathing with her and warming her heart when nothing else could. Galadriel had vanished too, but she was sat within her mind, kissing her soul and whispering songs into her ear when the nights grew too quiet. She was surrounded by love, by hope; the people of Rohan saw their king return and fight a battle, the dwarves had reclaimed their mighty city, the elves honoured their allegiance with men and the citizens of Gondor believed in her, and in their Mithrandir. Many praised her as she wandered down through the streets, bowing their heads and touching her body when she passed close enough to them. They talked to her like she was a god who had come to save them all from the darkness that grew ever closer, offering her their prayers and their blessings. They only left her alone when she approacheda rather grim looking wizard sat on a set of white steps in a small side street,

“He did not listen to me,” Gandalf sighed, “That stupid boy,”

“He only wanted to please his father,” Celemîr lowered herself next to him and he looked at her with a strange look, scrutinising her until she could keep his gaze no longer,

“He talked to you again,” Gandalf was careful with his words, “Didn’t he?”

Celemîr started to talk quickly, without taking a single breath, “I know you said I was at risk, that it was dangerous to be so close to Him without something happening but I was scared and distressed - He took advantage of me,” she gripped her knees and began to rock, “I’m so sorry! He wished for me to join Him but I did not - I could not, I could not abandon you now at this late hour,”

She thought he would be angry with her for almost submitting to Sauron, for thinking she could have be His queen and that He would have freed her of her confines, but Gandalf only smiled,

“At least we can count on one person to remember their light,” he said and took her hands, clasping them in his lap, “I am sorry you are subject to the Dark Lord’s - advances and I can only pray that when this day is up, you will be free of His chains,”

The moment was shattered by a bell ringing in the distance and Celemîr suddenly took in her surroundings. Men in armour rushed about madly, clutching bows and spears and shields and swords, buckling up their helmets and shouting at each other,

“At least a hundred thousand!”

“We’ll never stand a chance!”

Gandalf cast her a look and suddenly they were up and running, weaving through the guardsmen and soldiers, the wizard diverting left and right, climbing steps with the finesse not found in an elderly man. Celemîr had no trouble keeping up with him, running with the grace of an elf and the speed of a hummingbird. He led her onwards and upwards to the Citadel, emerging up the ramp and leaping across the carefully cut grass. Gandalf darted towards where Denethor was leaning over the side of the pinnacle, staring at the onslaught coming towards the city. Celemîr ran towards a group of men and she fell to her knees when she saw Faramir laying on a stretcher with holes in his chest and blood seeping into his clothes. Pippin sat at his head, touching his face and feeling for a pulse with tiny hands,

“He’s not dead, my lady!” The Hobbit told her excitedly, “He’s not dead!” Celemîr looked up at the men surrounding them and some of them bowed, some of them smiled and some of them bent down to see if the Hobbit was telling the truth.

“FLEE!” An almighty roar caused Celemîr to jump to her feet. Denethor was stood at the edge of the Citadel, shouting down to his people and to his soldiers, , “ABANDON YOUR POSTS! FLEE-!”

He did not get to finish his sentence, for Gandalf had rapped him smartly on the forehead with his staff. The steward hissed and then cried out when the staff beat down on his back, sending him sprawling on to his stomach. The White Wizard stood his ground and turned to the group of men around Pippin and Faramir,

“Prepare for battle,” he ordered and nodded at Celemîr, “We have a city to defend,”


	13. Chapter 13

They rode through the streets, Shadowfax rallying the men of Gondor, Gandalf shouting for them to return to their posts and to line the outer walls. Celemîr clutched at his waist, her skin glowing with the anticipation of battle, causing Shadowfax’s tailwind to rise in temperature and send strength down the spines of any man they passed. They could hear the army of Mordor approaching, great drums thundering through the air, orc armour clattering and their great catapults squeaking and grunting over the ground. Men followed the horse to the outer wall, lining up with their blue shields and black bows, trembling in their boots at the sight they saw. Huge blocks of orcs rumbled towards the city, flanked by trolls and towers on wheels, no doubt concealing even more orcs and foul creatures bred only to do Sauron’s bidding. The sky darkened as the army got closer, great black clouds blocking out the sun and sending impossibly hot wind over the city. It howled through the streets and picked up Celemîr’s skirts, blistering her skin and she heard his voice again, whispering to her in the speech of Mordor. Shadowfax galloped faster, if it was possible, and leapt up a narrow flight of steps to the outer wall where many of the soldiers were stationed,

“Listen to the drums!” She called, “They are the drums of war, let them fuel you, fill you with honour and fierceness!” She dropped off the horse and the men made a gap for her to stand in, shuffling so she could observe the terror aimed for them,

“You will fight with us my lady?” The soldier on her right asked with a croaky voice, “But you have no weapon,”

Celemîr looked to the sky and then over to the higher walls of the city, frowning when she saw the catapults being rigged and filled with rubble,

“I will protect the people of this city, I will be their weapon,”

 

Someone gave a shout and the first of the chaos began, the men of Gondor letting the catapults loose and sending several tonnes of rubble and stone through the air. A piece of bridge hit one of the towers and it crumbled to the ground, crushing the orcs within and around it. There were shouts of victory but they did not last long, for the orcs had begun their retaliation, sending off their catapults and flinging equally huge pieces of stone into the city. Walls were knocked down, men thrown off platforms and obliterated, women were screaming and children were crying. Celemîr turned her back on the battle and leapt on to the roof of a building, climbing higher and higher, further into the city until she reached a particularly crowded street,

“Go to the Citadel!” She cried, dropping down next to a women holding a newborn child, “go to the sacred chambers! Hide your children! Bar the doors! Do not leave!” Celemîr scooped up a weeping girl and began to lead the people away from the walls, away from the battle and the carnage. They followed her without a second thought, abandoning their belongings and helping each other through the labyrinth of alley ways and passages, climbing stairs and inching through abandoned buildings. The little girl kept crying for her mother and she pointed at a group of soldiers that ran them by, a few stopping to help the refugees, picking up the elderly and running with them.

There was an ear-shattering screech and a few of the people stumbled in terror, holding their hands over their ears and shutting their eyes, “Nazgul!” Someone shouted and a giant shadow swooped over them, the beast coming close enough for Celemîr to feel its acrid breath and the gust of his wings. She held the small girl closer to her chest, shielding her face,

“Stay to the shadows!” Celemîr spotted a group of guards ahead and she called to them, “You must help! Get all the women and children to the Citadel, it is the safest place for them!”

“But the chambers are sacred,” one of the younger soldiers quipped, ducking away from the shadow of a Nazgul,

“And the lives of your people are not?” Celemîr sent him a fiery glare, “Do as I say or these people will die,”

The rest of the guards did not think twice, scooping toddlers from the ground and cradling weeping mothers close. They carried on to the Citadel, weaving through small streets and narrow alleys to avoid the gazes of the Nazgul. Once the main roadway came into view, Celemîr handed her lead over to a burly soldier with a heavily scarred neck,

“I will continue searching for refugees,” she told him, letting him take the small girl from her arms, “They will be directed here and you must protect them, keep them safe and warm,” he nodded and the child started to cry. Celemîr kissed her cheek and darted away, sprinting down the street. She continued her search for civilians, bursting into houses and ransacking market shops for people. Many however, were huddled together in the open streets, cowering beneath rubble and ruins. All of them were crying, weeping for death,

“Go to the Citadel!” Celemîr called to them, lifting up the elderly and wrapping babies in woollen blankets. They followed her without a second thought, letting themselves be blindly led through the shadows and dark alleys to avoid the lecherous gaze of the Nazgul. Each time she began the approach to the Citadel along the main street, several of the Kings Guards hurried out to meet her and help the people to safety. She noticed that other guards were doing the same as she was, sprinting about the city in search for any missing civilians and taking them to the Citadel. Celemîr was only happy with her work when the sky grew dark and the streets ceased to echo with the screams of the innocent. She knew that the lower half of the city, the part being breeched by the oncoming orcs, had been completely emptied and that everyone was moving upwards away from the battle. Running through the silent streets, save for the odd group of soldiers, was highly discomforting and made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The Nazguls were still tormenting the city, plucking men from the ground and flinging them into the mountain side or out on to the fields that were swarming with orcs. It was too early to reveal herself to the enemy, if the Dark Lord found out that she was only a few leagues away then he would seek to enter and control her mind - once and for all. She did not want to feel his grip around her neck, she did not want to hear his croaky voice in her ear and she did not want to watch the fall of Man from within Mordor. Her wings would only draw him to her, which would put all of the men around her in danger.

 

So she climbed. Digging her fingers into the solid bricks, she scaled up a wall and pulled herself with very little effort, on to a walkway. Celemîr could see right down into the front lines of the enemy from where she was stood. They were battering against the main gate with a huge hammer that had been sculpted into the head of a troll-like creature. The Nazguls still swooped about, picking off groups of men; the enemy catapults still hurled great chunks of stone into the city, breaking homes and walls down; the orcs remained in their towers flanked with iron, inching closer and closer to the lower walls of the city.

There was an almighty screech from above her, and suddenly she was sheathed in shadow. A Nazgul was preparing to dive, circling the area where the was stood for a moment before tucking its scaly wings into its chest. Celemîr clenched her right fist and a javelin moulded into shape, glowing red hot and spitting sparks. She lunged back and took aim, narrowing her eyes at the exposed space on its chest. The creature hardly had time to react, trying to twist out of the javelin’s path. The weapon was too fast, striking right where it was aimed. Celemîr watched the Nazgul writhe in pain for a split second before it was engulfed in flames, spreading from where it had been struck. The rider too was pulled into the fire and it fell from the sky, spinning wildly out of control before crashing heavily into a bell tower far below. Cheers echoed out from around the city, a moment of victory spread through the hearts of all the men fighting.

It was short lived however, when the first of the orc towers breeched the walls. The front of it fell open with a crash and orcs of all shapes and sizes flooded from it, falling upon the flanks of soldiers with screams and howls. And more were coming from all directions. The sky grew darker with each inch covered, fire illuminated the clouds far above and Celemîr was unnerved by the fact it wasn’t her own. With a short sigh, mainly in frustration, she darted back into the main streets of the city. Her dress was covered in dirt and dust, and there was a splatter of blood on her right side, the silk now tattered and torn and her hair was matted and curling with the sweat that gathered on her forehead and neck. As she passed beneath an archway, she let out huff and a small cloud of smoke erupted from her nostrils, much like a bull. There came a funny change about her, like the way flames spread over a piece of parchment, her skin singed and her clothed set alight for a split second. As she got closer to the outer walls where the soldiers stood battling the orcs, her robes moulded into armour and her hair blew about in the wind until it was tied securely out of her face. The tiny flames dwindled and blew away in the wind, revealing her clothed in opalescent mail and crimson leather, a dagger at her hip and her sword slung across her back. She looked almost ethereal, with the last remnants of sun framing her lithe figure and her eyes blazing with the fury of a thousand men. The soldiers of Gondor urged her with them, taking up their spears and swords and shields.

“This way my lady,” a captain took her to a section of wall and pointed at a metal tower not ten yards or so away. The orcs concealed upon it rattled the shell of their transportation and banged their wagons against their chests, created a monstrous noise that shook Celemîr right to the core, “What do we do? The lower city is breeched,”

“Shoot the trolls!” She commanded immediately, leaning over the wall and rallying the archers, “Shoot them quickly!” The towers were being shunted along by hideous creatures with bulging heads and tiny eyes, not even flinching when a wave of arrows bore down on them. The tower grew closer and closer until Celemîr could make out each and every orc upon it, their horrid faces beneath their horrid helmets.

“Get behind me!” She order loudly, waving her arms at the men nearest to the wall, gesturing for them to stand away from the orcs’ plight. The tower knocked against the stone and Celemîr rushed forwards with a cry, spreading her palms forward and unleashing a torrent of fire towards it. The first of the orcs fell into the flames and screamed like piglets as they were burned, and others tried to fight through the heat, throwing spears and firing arrows into the source. But Celemîr clenched her fists and jolted forwards, her fire exploding into the tower and causing it to crash into the one behind, both spitting smoke, sparks and charred orcs. Her soldiers cheered, the swords glinting in the dappled sunlight but Celemîr whirled around,

“We have but one small victory!” She shouted, “Let this be the first of many!” They marched on, ambushing each tower with steel and fire, lighting up the steadily darkening sky. Celemîr was covered in sweat, her skin stained with blood of both colours and her eyes streamed with the stench of the dead, charred hands grappling against her sword as she plunged it into the belly of an orc that had somehow managed to climb the outer wall of the city. Gandalf came to her not long before, giving her the command of the walls, telling her to defend her sister city and its people, and defend it she did. Celemîr had her soldiers mount rubble and the bodies of the enemy over the edge of the wall, her presence enhancing their strength and stamina; each archer had new bows and tighter strings, spears moulded from lightning appeared in their hands and spurred down on the enemy. This battle reminded her of Helm’s Deep, with the filth erecting ladders to penetrate the walls, always to be beaten down by a mace wielding man or a tide of molten metal. Though instead of fighting for someone, obeying their every order, protecting them and following them; she spoke the commands, she took the lead and launched the battle cries, she ran along the walls and checked on the men, even if they threatened to abandon her.

“Do not lose hope!” She shouted more often than not, picking mere boys off the floor and handing them spears or swords, kicking a grappling hook from the stone and striking an orc with her elbow, melting the top of the ladder with a simple look and it collapsed down. One of her men shouted suddenly, gathering might so to shoot down a thumping body of trolls attempting to break through the main gate, giving up on arrows when the tough skin of the foul creatures proved to be impenetrable, throwing rocks and severed limbs instead.

“Fall back!” Celemîr realised their struggle was fruitless as the wood of the gates began to splinter, “Fall back to the inner city!” The men scrambled off the walls, joining the garrison Gandalf had gathered below to meet the oncoming storm, some leaving with cries for the innocent and some remained, vowing to follow Celemîr anywhere. She leapt beside a commander who was shaking beneath his armour but held his head high, stumbling to the floor as the gate cracked open, orcs and trolls flooding through and setting to work slaying each man who stood in their way.

She could feel her shirt sticking to the raw skin of her back, her muscles throbbing with energy and her lungs bursting for air. She could smell the fire within her very being, the smoke from Mordor, the skin of the trolls, the urine and the faeces of the dead, the blood of the fallen and the raw steel of her sword. She could hear someone shouting for her, and then for their mother, the orcs shouting in black speech and then in Common Tongue, the roaring of the barrage beyond the walls and the beating of the war drums. Blood sprayed on to her face and into her mouth, staining her shirt and her sword. There was no escaping the onslaught raining through the gates and into the city at alarming rates, and Gandalf called for a retreat,

“Get the women and children out!” He clipped his heels and rode off on Shadowfax, cutting down anything foul in his path, “They have breeched the lower city!”

“I will defend the walls!” Her voice was strong and clear over the battle, and Celemîr thrust her sword into the air for all to see. She was their light in the darkness, a shining beacon of hope that led her vanguard back onto the walls, situated higher above the main gates and decorated with catapults and ballistas. Immediately the soldiers set to work, loading rubble and spears into the weapons, firing down below onto the writhing masses that were overwhelming the streets beyond.

“My lady!” Celemîr was approached by two bloodied soldiers, one missing an eye but still standing straight as she,, “They’ve breeched the lower flanks!”

“And the main streets!”

“Bring your battalion round to me!” She commanded and when the men explained that they were the only remaining, Celemîr looked out across the city. It was burning, it was swarmed with black insects that left a hue of death and chaos in their wake, buildings were crumbling, walls were collapsing and exploding, and all her men could do was watch.

 

Celemîr opened her mouth to command them, tell them to flee to the Citadel but she was interrupted but a horn, one that ignited her skin and made her eyes sparkle. The soldiers looked to the East and saw the sun reaching up over the horizon, and a tiny figure emerged from beyond the fields of Pelanor, sat on a horse with a flowing green cape. He was not alone.

“Rohan has come!” Celemîr ordered the men of Gondor, “Captain Arlon!” She beckoned her commander forwards, “Take the men to the Citadel, gather any remaining civilians and soldiers, defend the heart of this city and when you see the tides turn; fly out to meet them!”

“As you will my lady,” the captain repeated her orders to the soldiers and bid her farewell, squeezing her shoulder and flourishing his sword, “You are defending the Kings of Old, you are defending your women and children! Do not loose hope!”

She watched the soldiers retreat up the path to the Citadel, and she imagined what it must look like to the enemy; as if they were abandoning their posts and fleeing for their lives. Another horn sounded and in the distance, a king shouted for death, and his army responded with might and will. Their cries echoed through her chest and Celemîr faced the battle, casting her eyes to the East.

There were her people. The people who stood by her at Helm’s Deep, the people who would follow their king and their allies to the depths of Mordor. She could see Théoden at the front, his helmet glinting in the sun and his sword held high above his head; Gamling and another commander rode along the front line, shouting and calling for death as their king had; she saw Éomer sat upon his horse with his spear in hand and he beat at his chest, the motion bruising her own sternum. The sun fell upon the many thousands behind them, all holding their horses and brandishing shields and swords. The sight sent chills down her back, and then Théoden called them forth.

His horse was the first to break into a sprint, the mass following on with harsh cries and shouts. Celemîr watched them advance in a triangular formation towards the orcs, who had rallied up to meet them - with arrows and shafts longer than any spear of Man. Her soul swelled and burst into flames, her skin boiled and she threw out her arms, an ear-piercing screech coming from her open lips.

The orcs didn’t know what to do; continue firing at the oncoming horses and their riders, or flee from the wings of the _Naur Dulin_ that was preparing to swoop down on them. Even if they had made a decision, it was too late; Celemîr opened her beak and spat flames along the front lines, burning a clear path for the Men of Rohan. The horses trampled through the fire and the bodies of the archers, cheering her on and charging onwards into the enemy. She looked on with pride, hovering far above the battle, watching the Rohirrim carve through the orcs. Théoden fought with the strength of a man several years his junior and Éomer stabbed anything that moved.


End file.
